


In dreams

by Zora



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Creepy Baelish, Did I mention UST, Eventually to be resolved UST, F/M, HOW ABOUT UST, Lannistersssss, Modern AU, Multi POV, Multi character - Freeform, UST, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2018-06-09 14:43:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 51,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6911389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zora/pseuds/Zora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU in which 22 year old Sansa works at a dog salon after a stupid, impulsive desicion finds her running from the Lannisters. Moving to the big city marks the beginning of a new life for her, where she is on her own, until...<br/>This is my first fic, ever! Please note that English is not my native language, but I do the best I can. I hope you like my story. <3</p><p>Early november 2016 update: hey guys! A lot of stuff has been happening in my personal life, lately. This fic will continue, but I need a little time to pick up where I left off, and gain some inspiration on the way. I'LL BE BACK YO *peace out*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leighofoldstones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leighofoldstones/gifts).



1.  
Sansa sits on the bench and stares blankly at the water. The moon casts a silverish blue, almost magical light on the surface of everything it touches. It makes her think of the fairytales her mom used to read to her as a kid. Of pretty princesses, gallant and brave princes, beautiful horses, evil stepmothers and scary, scary witches. Feeling a sense of melancholy rise, Sansa hurries to tuck the memories back in the lidded box in that one, unvisited corner of her mind. 

It is cold at this hour. But she doesn’t mind the cold. The numbing, soothing effect it has. The way it stills her mind when thoughts run an endless race in her head, images tumbling over each other, all trying to find the right place in her thoughts. So she sits, takes in the morning air. Sitting here, away from the world, means not having to wear the polite, chipper mask. The cool morning breeze plays with her auburn hair a bit, making the hairs in her neck stand up. ‘Not a soul in sight’, Sansa thinks. A small sigh escapes from her chest. There really is no one here. It’s just her, the lost, occasional jogger and the two fat squirrels fighting over who gets to eat the walnuts Sansa brought. 

It feels liberating, not having to wear that mask. Not having to keep up appearances. She loves her job at the trimming salon, even if she only gets to work there part time, and the money is tight. But no matter how low she holds her head, she can’t avoid having to actually talk to people. To look them in the eyes. Whether it is dear old Mrs. Johnson who comes in regularly to have her bitchy pincher Sonya groomed or the middle aged couple that bring around their adorable poodles Charles and Camilla a little too often. The looks she gets are often the same. Middle aged men, old enough to be her father, staring just a little too long. Their wives shooting barely disguised angry looks from their thick layered spider leg mascara eyes. At least the dogs are honest and true. No questionable, lingering looks. No angry, jealous glances, hidden agendas or having to read between the lines. ‘Maybe I should have been born a dog.’, she thinks. 

The sound of water splashing swiftly pulls Sansa out of her reverie. She blinks her eyes and for just a second, tiny wrinkles frame her baby blues. The two swans, whom Sansa dubbed ‘Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth’ after characters from her favorite book, appear. The pair have gotten used to Sansa visiting them almost every Tuesday and Saturday. There may or may not have been treats involved in trying to gain their trust. Sansa thinks of when she first moved to the city, four months ago. A lot happened since. And so much changed. But not her swan audience. They were the first two friendly faces she could count on, during her first weeks here.

Grinning slightly, she calls out to them, softly. “Fitz! Liz! I brought you something!” As Sansa pulls a small plastic container out of her old duffle bag, Liz approaches her cautiously, her elegant neck slightly bent to lower her head upon hearing Sansa, throwing the little leafs of lettuce and spinach her way. The green treat, small and light as it may be, leaves ripples after it touches the surface of the dark water. The circles and ripples continue to become larger for some time, reminding Sansa of how a seemingly innocent choice, can have the most severe consequences. Liz bites down the lettuce, gathers as much of the other leafs as she can and swims back toward Fitz, her faithful companion. 

Unaware of the stranger sitting on the bench under a large willow tree not far from where she sits, Sansa watches the two swans munching away on their vegetables and takes another deep breath of crisp morning air. 

***

That morning, Sansa is the first to arrive at the salon. Rummaging through all the stuff in her bag, she manages to find her keys and opens the doors, changes the door sign to say ‘open’, gets everything ready and gives the place a quick sweep before her boss lady comes in.

The place is small, but Sansa loves the atmosphere in the salon. The white walls are covered in wallpaper with minimalist black silhouettes of dogs, making sure no one will mistake the place for anything but a doggy spa. Cute accessories are stored on the few wooden white shelves on the left wall, behind the counter. A couple of chairs, fluffy, colorful pillows and dog beds in all shapes and sizes take up most of the space that is left. The grooming rooms out back are less crowded in furniture. Something about the smell here makes Sansa feel at ease. It’s the dogs, sure, but there is something else, too. Maybe it is the slightly minty, sweet smell of the doggy shampoo. Or the sound of the large clock on the wall behind her, ticking away second after second. Whatever it is, every time her feet cross the threshold, a sense of familiarity overcomes her and Sansa feels a little at home.

Jenny, the salon owner, has become a good and trusted friend. Being a couple of years her senior, Jenny decided to take Sansa on, knowing full well she had no experience trimming and grooming dogs and little experience handling them, when she responded to the ad. But Sansa was desperate; the little money she had saved up seemed to evaporate before her eyes since moving here. She really tried getting by on as little as possible, but living in the city was more expensive than she could have imagined. And she had never lived by herself before. Being a lover of pretty, ridiculously high heeled shoes, the kind that make your feet look all pretty as you sit in them (walking not being an option), didn’t help.

But Jenny decided to go with her gut and take a chance. A smile finds its way to Sansa’s face as she thinks of all the foamy soap that covered her hands, arms, and dog, that poor dog, the first time she tried washing one of the clients dogs. The lovely, chocolate brown lab was covered in dust and looked muddy from having a great play date outdoors, so Sansa decided to use a lot of shampoo after wetting the poor animal first. By the time she was done scrubbing the patient girl down, there was more foam then dog. Jenny laughed so hard, that Sansa could not help and laugh too, despite herself. 

“Good morning, miss Stark!” Lifting her head from the counter, Sansas eyes meet Mrs. Johnson friendly dark brown eyes. The old lady comes around regularly. And no matter how many times Sansa says it is okay to call her by her first name, Mrs. Johnson will have nothing of it. “Good morning, Mrs. Johnson. How are you today? Is Sonya ready for another wash already?”  
“I am not sure, dear.” Sonya curls her lip slightly and stops wagging her tail at the mention of her name. “But I figured it has been a little while since I was last here, you see. And her nails have gotten long. She makes scratchy sounds when she walks around the house. And though I have gotten a little deaf, and I told myself: ‘Violet, just ignore the sound and turn up the television’, I can’t stand the sound”, Mrs. Johnson says with a warm smile. 

Smiling back, Sansa leaves the counter and walks up to Mrs. Johnson and Sonya. Taking over the leash and trying to ignore the further curled up lip, teeth, and tiny rolling dog eyes, Sansa inspects the chubby pincher’s lady paws. Her nails could indeed do with a clipping. Just as she is ready to offer Mrs. Johnson a cup of tea while she waits, Sansa notices the elderly lady staring at her intently. There is a slight look of concern on her face. Mrs. Johnson leans in a little closer, speaking in a hushed voice. 

“Sonya and her scratchy nail sounds is not the only reason I am here, deary.” Mrs. Johnson lets out a barely notable sigh after that. Her brown eyes shoot left and right, scanning the room, like she is trying to make sure they really are alone before continuing to speak, leaning in a little closer. “I hope you don’t think that what I am about to tell you, means that Violet is some old, senile lady. Because I may need a cane for walking, and my hearing may have gotten worse. But believe me, dear. Violet still has her marbles and ducks in a row up here”, she says, arching an eyebrow and pointing at her forehead like she means it. 

Sansa must have formed question marks where her eyeballs should be, because Mrs. Johnson can tell that she is puzzled. The look the old lady’s face becomes more serious, and a little dark. Sansa swallows. “I had a dream last night, miss Stark. I don’t dream often, you see. But when I do, it always means something. And even when I don’t want to be, I am always right. What I see, happens. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next year. But it always comes to pass. It is a gift my mother had. And her mother before her. It is a family thing, see, and...” 

A bell rings and the door opens, abruptly. Jenny’s voice fills the place. “Hi Sansa! Hello, Mrs. Johnson!” Jenny walks over to Sonya, who, of course, immediately starts wagging her tail.  
Sansa feels little hairs on her arms beginning to stand up. She feels uncomfortable. Curious, but mostly worried. Anxious. What was Mrs. Johnson about to tell her? Mrs. Johnson takes a slight step back and looks at her wrist watch. “Oh dear! Is it that time, already?” 

As Jenny makes her way to the back to put away her personal things and get ready for another working day, Mrs. Johnson regains her composure and leans in, again. “We probably can’t talk now, dear. Maybe you can join me for a nice cup of tea later today? You have my address. We should really talk, deary. Because… I came here to warn you.”


	2. 2.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa visits Mrs. Johnson to hear about the dream the old lady had about her.

2.

It is not cold in the salon, but Sansa feels chillier than she did early this morning when she went to pay Fitz and Liz a visit. As soon as Mrs. Johnson is out the door, Sansa finds her mind racing. A warning? For her? About what? She has been in the city for a couple of months now. She was careful when she left. All ties were severed. She has made an art of not standing out, being just another, meaningless face in a crowd of so many. No trace, no nothing.

She is rattled and scared and part of her wants to run and hide and not come back. Ever. And she could do it. Just like that. Pack whatever little belongings she has, hop on whatever train is first, go and never look back. She would miss the salon. And the dogs. And Jenny, gods she would miss Jen. But, curiosity killed the cat. And it is curiosity that got Sansa in huge trouble in the first place. She might still be living near her wonderful family if only she had not stuck her nose where it didn’t belong. Sansa feels a pang in the pit of her stomach. Closing her eyes, she counts to three, breathes in and out and she feels her heartrate go down. ‘The hell with it’, Sansa tells herself. ‘I am a grown woman and I am doing just fine. If Mrs. Johnson has something to tell me, I will visit her, drink tea with her and listen to what she has to say. What are dreams, anyway?’

“What was that all about?” Bouncy, warm brown curls appear from around the corner of the back room. Jenny has changed into her work clothes. “Jesus, Sansa, are you okay? You look like you have just seen a ghost!” Steeling herself and rubbing her own arms, Sansa looks up. “I do? Ah, think nothing of it. I haven’t eaten yet. I think I need coffee.”  Jenny hurries to the tiny kitchen and pours a steaming hot, big mug of black coffee. Just the way Sansa likes it. “Here you go, sweetheart”, Jenny says as she hands Sansa the large mug. “Now, are you sure you are okay?”

For a second, Sansa thinks of confiding in her friend. She quickly changes her mind. Because what is there to say? ‘I just had a nice chat with Violet, you know, Sonya’s lady, and she says she has had a bad dream and came to warn me about something?’

So Sansa says that she really is okay. Luckily, new costumers arrive. Sansa gulps down the coffee, feels the warm sensation of it down her esophagus and into her tummy and the pang seems to relax, before it disappears completely.

The rest of the day seems to fly by even faster than usual. When it’s almost five, Jenny decides that they are finished for that day, even if the sign by the door says ‘open to 5.30’. Sansa takes off her work outfit, quickly pops on her dark blue hoodie and heads out the door after Jenny has promised her there really is no more work to be done for the day. She waits for the lights to turn green after crossing the crowded street.

With the distractions of work gone, Sansa thinks back to the awkward encounter she had with Mrs. Johnson, earlier that day. Sansa is a practical girl, and not at all into supernatural stuff. But there was something in the earnest, serious look on Mrs. Johnsons face that made her doubt her own beliefs and convictions for a second. She feels alarmed still and wonders if it really is a good idea to go and visit a client when she is off the clock. Jenny might not appreciate her doing this. But Sansa needs to know about that warning. She has left behind too much to be in any kind of danger now. And she’ll be damned to give up everything another time, even if what she has is little. She worked too hard to find safety and peace of mind again.

Since it is close to dinner time, Sansa decides to make a small detour and pick up some Thai food for her and Mrs. Johnson. After waiting in line for just a few minutes, the young guy behind the counter notices her and asks for her order. “Hi, eh, what can I do for you? Like, food?” He seems to have trouble finding the right words and a little blush is spreading across is spotted adolescent face. Sansa feels a little bad for the boy and says: “I would like some pad thai for two, please, thank you!” The boy is now redder than a lobster on fire and takes her cash with sweaty palms. It grosses Sansa out a bit. But she was raised well and always remembers to be kind and polite. So she ignores the awkwardness, takes the change, puts it back in her purse and waits. When the order is ready, she can’t help herself and flashes a brilliant smile and a cute little wink. If the boy was red before, he is positively crimson now.

***

Sansa counts to three, steadies herself a little and rings the doorbell. This should be the correct address. The intercom produces some static noises and then the voice of Mrs. Johnson sounds. “Yes, hello, who is it?” “Hello Mrs. Johnson”, Sansa says. “It’s Sansa, from Jenny’s Dog Salon?” There is more static and before Sansa knows it, a loud ‘beep’ indicates that Mrs. Johnson has opened the door for her. She walks up to the hallway of the tall apartment building and decides she feels like taking the stairs, rather than the elevator. When Sansa arrives on the third floor, Mrs. Johnson is already waiting for her in the doorway.

“Miss Stark! How nice to see you. I am so happy you decided to come. I hope I didn’t scare you, dear. If I did, please forgive old Violet, I mean well!” Mrs. Johnson holds the door open and after being invited in, Sansa hesitantly takes her first steps and enters the hallway of Mrs. Johnsons private home. She feels a little uncomfortable again, and still wonders if not telling Jenny about visiting Mrs. Johnson was a stupid thing to do. But she is here now, so she might as well go ahead with this plan.

As soon as Sonya notices the visitor is Sansa, the pincher lets out a couple of moody barks. One look from her mistress silences her, however. Mrs. Johnsons home is… special. There are candles everywhere. The many paintings she has put on the wall, hardly leave any of the plasterwork visible. There are piles of books, magazines and papers everywhere. And the place has a very thick smell of vanilla. All the curtains have been closed and there is little light inside. “Please, please, sit!”, Mrs. Johnson says, pointing at an old, but comfortable looking sofa at the far end of the coffee table. Sansa has sore feet from standing for hours on end, and gladly takes the invitation. Sinking into the sofa, she notices that indoors, the old lady walks without a cane.

 

“Mrs. Johnson, have you eaten yet? Since it is dinner time, I brought some take out. Nothing fancy. I hope you like Thai?”, Sansa asks. The look Mrs. Johnson gives her, makes Sansa feel silly. She should have known better than to bring some fancy foreign food to a lady as old fashioned and conservative as Mrs. Johnson. A smile forms on the old lady’s lips, however. “My, how thoughtful of you! Could you be a dear and get some plates from the kitchen?” Sansa feels her stomach growling, and suddenly she realizes just how hungry she is. She follows Mrs. Johnson’s directions to the old but spotless kitchen and takes out two placemats, plates and utensils for the lady of the house. They sit together and eat in silence. Mrs. Johnson is a true sport throughout the entire meal, but Sansa can tell that she has trouble eating the spicy food, no matter how hard Mrs. Johnson tries to hide it. After they are done, Sansa clears the coffee table and Mrs. Johnson puts on a kettle and starts making tea. When the tea is done, so is the silence.  

“Again, miss Stark, I am so sorry if I scared you, before”, Mrs. Johnson says. “But I like you, you’re a sweet girl. And I feel I have to tell you about what I saw in my dreams.” The pang returns to Sansa’s stomach. She has a feeling it will sit there for the rest of the visit. Mrs. Johnson tells Sansa about the rare gift all the ladies in her family have had for generations. “Deary, sometimes this gift is more like a curse.” Another sigh. “I have seen things I can hardly speak of. And sometimes, the dreams are so hard to make out. I can sleep for hours on end, and wake up utterly spent. This happened last night, when I had the dream I am going to tell you about”, she says. Sansa can see that Mrs. Johnson is carefully picking her words. It makes her feel even more nervous. The pang in her stomach starts playing a game of volleyball in her belly as Sansa shifts in her chair and listens.   

“Please understand that these dreams, these… images, are more symbolic than they are literal. It is important you remember that, okay?” Sansa nods. Mrs. Johnson closes her eyes and begins to remember the details of her dream.

“Alright. Last night, I dreamt of a beautiful girl. She could have been any girl. But she was unmistakably you, miss Stark. Her hair, like yours, appeared to be on fire. It was a cloak around her narrow and slender shoulders and it hid her from the sight of peering, evil, evil eyes. A flash. The girl was running from a large group of golden amber lions. I saw a clock, which I believe means that the situation I saw, is something that took place in the past. She was determined, the girl with the red hair. I could tell by the strong sway in her step. But she was scared. A flash and a shadow and another flash. I saw nature. And the bluest skies I had ever seen. I saw you. You were happy, and you danced, but you kept looking over your shoulder. And the weeping willow, deary. She had secrets. The clock returned, and it became blurry. The past and the present, they seemed to mingle and fade and they greeted each other like old friends. There was treason and a lie and the glass from the clock shattered. It fell on the ground. Time walked away and he laughed and laughed. It was cold and black and dark and hollow. And the willow wept and wept and wept. She cried red tears, and red tears streamed down a mother’s face. She was broken, the willow, the mother. Her hair turned white and her swans withered. And you were buried, but not gone. Awake, but so, so still. And there was a scream, but no sound. And time. He wore a cloak of red as he walked away. He laughed.”

Mrs. Johnson opens her eyes and blinks a couple of times to adjust to the dim light in her living room. “When I woke up, I felt so cold. And so sad, deary. I could not shake the feeling that you are in grave danger. From something or someone from your past.” She looks at the young girl sitting on the sofa. “Miss Stark. Are you alright? Here. Have some herbal tea. It’s a special recipe, that will help calm your nerves”, the old lady says with a slight sound of worry to her voice.

Sansa’s eyes hurt. She bites back tears and shivers without realizing it. She was so not ready for this. “Your dream… it sounds so scary”, Sansa shivers. “What does it mean? You said you came to warn me. What or who are you warning me about? Am I in danger? Should I do something? What should I do?”

Mrs. Johnson moves on the couch to sit closer to where Sansa is sitting. “Oh sweet, sweet girl. I am so sorry I can’t tell you any more than I have…” Sansa shifts again. “Remember I said that the dream is mostly symbolic, and not too literal? Try and think of the things that you remember. What pops up in your mind first?”

Sansa’s mind runs and runs and runs. The swans. The red hair. Her past. The lies.

“Willow”, she says then. “That is what my dad used to call my mom before I was born.”

 

 

 


	3. 3.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra special thank you to Leigh, who kindly agreed to be my beta for this chapter. Thank you, dear friend! You make an awesome beta! I laughed so hard at your comment on the Freudian slip :D  
> Also, thank you to everyone who took the time to read the two chapters so far. Sandor is here.

3.  
Sandor paces the living room of his house. He makes his way to the fridge in his poor excuse for a kitchen for a third time in just minutes, only to come to the same conclusion as before: it really is empty. The only slice of cheese left in the blasted fridge is not going to cure the gnarling sounds his stomach keeps making. “Fuck.” Sandor puts on his black sweatpants, his long sleeve shirt, and his old, beat up pair of Adidas sneakers. “Damn it all to hell,” he mutters under his breath. Sandor is hungry, and he has to eat. Working out more will not help, which means he has to leave the safety of his dark and broody man cave to run out to the store for much needed supplies. And beer. He is tired of drinking fucking water of all things and he ran out of Jack Daniels last week. So he gathers his courage, finds the beanie that functions as a security blanket of sorts--which of course he would NEVER admit to--puts it on his head to help his hair cover the bad side of his face, grabs his wallet and leaves for the nearest supermarket.

  
The streets are empty. Small puddles of the fucking rain that seems to never let up cover the sidewalk and the asphalt of the roads. But the rain doesn’t bother him much; it is a perfect echo of the mood he has been in as of late. Sandor decides to walk a bit further and pay Mr. Singh a visit. He is already so hungry he could eat a horse and then some, what difference do five more minutes make? Mr. Singh doesn’t sell his favorite brand of beer, but Sandor is a regular customer. And there’s more. The store is small. No isles that go on for fucking miles. Everything he needs is right there. Though Sandor thinks it might mean business isn’t exactly booming, the lack of customers, especially at this late hour, means he doesn’t have to worry so much about scared or pitiful looks tossed his way. No kids that start crying their lungs out as soon as they see the mess that used to be his face. No old folks looking away as soon as their eyes meet his.

  
Sandor arrives at the store and opens the heavy door in one huge swing. He has to duck his head to avoid banging it in the doorway. Mr. Singh has already noticed his presence. “Mr. Sandor”, he says, rolling his ‘r’ in that typical, Indian accent he carries. “It has been a while! Have you been well, my friend?” Sandor quickly scans the store and much to his relief, there is no one there but the store owner and himself. “Not too bad. Hungry, though."  
Mr. Singh looks at Sandor with a look of almost fatherly concern. “Hungry? You look thin! Your cheeks are hollow! You are a big man, you should eat more, like me!” he says, as he points at his round belly.  
Sandor lets out a raspy kind of chuckle, his spirits slightly lifted. “Or maybe you should eat a little less, my friend”, he says, winding his way through the store and quickly gathering what he needs. This time, he makes sure to stock up enough to last him at least another week.  
***

The sun comes out to say hello as Sansa has the next day off from work. When she got home from visiting Mrs. Johnson the night before, she couldn’t help but think back to when she still lived with her mom and dad and her siblings. Before everything changed. And dear lord, that dream. Sansa feels in her bones that there is a kind of truth to it, even if she can’t decipher all the things Mrs. Johnson told her about. Yet. As she walked home yesterday, she could not shake the feeling that she had to be careful from now on. Watch her step. Like when you know you are being watched, but every time you look over your shoulder or in your closet or under your bed, there is nothing there. It had been the first time she felt that way since she left.

  
“No more of that,” Sansa tells herself. “You know what you need? To get your ass out of bed, take a good, hot shower, and give this place a good cleaning.” And again, Sansa laughs at herself despite everything. She stops thinking about the warning and the past and the dream best she can. Her home is tiny, but it has become a home sooner than she expected. The large window of her second floor apartment allows a lot of daylight to find its way to her living room. Sansa opens the curtains and makes herself a good, strong cup of coffee before she gets to work.  
Sansa likes to keep her place tidy. But almost three hours later, the home is barely recognizable. All The floors are so clean one could eat off of them. Her closet is neatly organized and sorted, the trash has been taken out, and she has cleaned everything she could possibly think of. Looking at herself in the mirror, Sansa sees the bags under her eyes. “Alright, enough. I need to do something fun,” she says to her weary reflection. “Where on earth have I left my sketch book?”

***  
Sounds coming from the television interfere with the peaceful and beautiful dream Sandor is having. In this dream, the girl with the red hair is safe. And his face is whole. And she looks at him, and sees him, truly sees him, with all his faults, and smiles. No fear, no pity, no awkwardness. Just a smile, a real one. He knows it, because her eyes are smiling, too.  
The TV won’t shut up. Sandor wakes up with a pounding headache. He remembers coming home after getting some much needed supplies and opening a bottle of this piss beer, using his old wooden table to get the cap off. He also remembers checking his e-mail to see if there were any updates on his assignment. Of course there were. Bronn, his boss, sent the update using the same staccato, telegram style of writing that is so clearly his. He’ll give Bronn a call later that afternoon.

  
Throwing off the covers, Sandor nearly trips over the blanket as he tries to make his way out of bed to get some damn water and an aspirin. How much did he drink, anyways? When he reaches his kitchen, the evidence is undeniable. He drank the six-pack of beers and two more of the second six-pack he brought back from Mr. Singh. “Fuck, you’re getting too old for this shit, Clegane,” he tells himself.

  
Heading back to the bedroom, ready to get some more sleep and allowing the aspirin more time to do it’s magic, he decides maybe a jog is just what he needs to get the alcohol out of his system. After a shower, that is. Dreaming of the red haired beauty got his blood and another part of him up and he much longs for a quick release. In the shower he helps himself to let go of some tension. After showering and washing his hair using the cheap bar of soap he stole from a hotel he stayed at last December, Sandor curses upon realizing he forgot to grab a fucking towel.  
His phone goes off. “Fucking hell, what is it now?”

  
“Clegane here,” he rasps. He listens for a moment, his frown deepening. “Safe to talk?” He chuckles mirthlessly. “As safe as it ever is in this bloody town.” He hears Bronn take a deep breath before saying the words Sandor has been dreading since he agreed to take on the bizarre assignment a couple of weeks ago.  
“Time’s up,” Bronn says at the other end of the line. “They’re here.”


	4. 4.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get to know more about Sansa and her background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My! I had no idea that writing can work up sucn an appetite. I hope you like this chapter.

4.

Fitz and Liz don’t seem to be around. It’s Wednesday, and Sansa has done about everything she could think of to keep her mind and hands occupied. She needs some fresh air, and opening the windows won’t do. So Sansa walks to the park and seeks out her favorite wooden bench, takes a seat and looks at the people passing by. Closing her eyes for a second, she feels the tension in her neck muscles give way a little.

Sansa used to love seeing all the visitors here. Young moms, chasing after their little boys, proud fathers giving daughters piggy back rides, the old couple – Sansa thinks they are at least in their 80s - who still hold hands every time she sees them. And the group of skaters, seven boys and that one girl who makes her think of Arya. She always wears ripped, tight fitted jeans, chunky sneakers and black shirts and her purple hair is a different color every time Sansa sees her.

After a while, not drawing parallels between the people she randomly met and the ones she left at home, became difficult. The girl with the colorful hair was Arya every time, the young families were Sansa and her siblings playing a game of tags and the elderly couple holding hands kept on becoming Catelyn and Ned. Sansa found herself casting them nasty looks, sometimes.

So she stays indoors, and goes out when it’s necessary. Her life has become a routine. Sansa finds the predictability strangely comforting. No unexpected surprises, no more going back and forth between her old life and her life now. She gets up early, takes a shower every morning, washes her hair on the same day every week, wears the same type of jeans, grey, blue or black hoodies and shoes, eats the same breakfast, goes to work, stays indoors, draws as little attention to her as possible, avoids watching the news, picks up fruits and vegetables from the same small supermarket owned by the nice Indian mister and the next day is always the same as the day before.

***

Cursing under his breath, Sandor dries his damp, dark hair with a towel, uses his fingers to comb it back a little and puts it in a low ponytail to keep it out of the way as he goes running, though he knows it will expose his face. He curses again. Fucking Bronn, and his fucking phone call. Of course Sandor knew they would sooner or later get a hold of the girl’s whereabouts. The question was when, not if. Maybe the child deserves a little credit, for managing to stay off the radar for a good couple of months. Maybe just dumb luck. But she’s had no help that they know of.

Tracking her down was easy, for someone who knows how and where to look, and what people to talk to. Snitches are everywhere. Fucking rats. And Sandor knows firsthand how little loyalty Lannisters employees have for the Family. A little persuasion helps. And then there’s the matter of that damned, red hair of hers, making the girl stand out more than a golden crown would on a huge pile of shit.

But she is safe for now. At least she was smart enough to keep her head down. And Bronn’s men are keeping a close eye on her. They’re talking strategy later tonight. Sandor already knows his instructions will be simple: extraction. The girl needs to be relocated and she is probably not going to come willingly. There will be no time to explain, not with the Lannisters sniffing about and already picking up her scent. And fuck what she wants; her safety is priority number one at this point. Sandor tosses in another aspirin, grabs his MP3 player, puts on the largest pair of shades he can find and heads out the door where the rain continues to fall.

 

***

Unaware of the luring eyes, friend or foe, Sansa sits and waits. She has no idea what for. There is no one to talk to, no contacts in her what’s app, no friends on Facebook, no followers on Instagram and no stranger to chat with. She tried watching the news before, in an attempt to keep up with current events in the world. But the images of starving children, war torn countries, refugees, violence and that darn idiot Donald Trump so little in helping her maintain what little peace and comfort she has, when she allows herself to feel a little. She thinks back to the dream and the warning and the questions she has. The volleyballs return to her stomach. What can she do? Run again? Start over? Where the hell to? And what for, because some old lady had a dream, that weird ass dream, and told her about it?

‘That is nonsensical, Sansa’, she reprimands herself. She sits up a little straighter at that. You are not going anywhere. No one knows you’re here. No one gives a darn. And to everyone here, you are nothing special. Just another young woman, trying to get by. Like so many. Sansa doesn’t know how long she has been sitting here. The sun is leaving her day place in the sky, to take up her throne elsewhere. It is starting to get dark. The hair in her side braid is wet, but Sansa didn’t notice the rain. She should go home.

***

Checking her savings account confirms what she already knows: shopping is definitely out of the question. Sometimes Sansa gives in to one of the things old Sansa used to do when she was feeling sad. But the money is tight and she needs to be smart about things. So no shopping. And no social media! She used to check status updates of her brothers and sister on Facebook. It hurt. But gods, she missed them when she still allowed those feelings to live inside her heart. Until seeing a picture of her sister Arya, the undisputed queen of making silly faces, almost made her forget her current circumstances. Sansa was THIS close to posting a reply. To tell her sister not to worry, everything is okay, I miss you and those crazy faces of yours. And I’m sorry.

Sansa left without telling a soul. No hints, no goodbye note, no contact info. Nothing. She had little time to prepare. But she knew she had to hurry. Sansa didn’t know what a survivor’s instinct was, until she came close, very close, to being in immediate danger herself. What she found at Joffrey’s house would be enough to permanently damage the family’s reputation, maybe even bring down the entire Lannister empire. And for a second, she contemplated informing the police. Sansa laughs at herself now, thinking back. She was so naïve. So in over her head. The Lannisters owned the police. Hell, they owned the entire state. Joffrey, stupid, stupid Joffrey, boasted about this every chance he got. If only the Lioness, his mother, knew. She would have smacked him so hard, he would run to his room like the scared and insignificant cub he really was.

Upon entering the household as a Personal Assistant to Joffrey, who would be taking over his father’s business later that year, Sansa was dazzled at first. She applied to the job because she wanted to put herself through school. It paid well. Too well, but she didn’t want to see that, back then. University fees were off the charts, even if she took classes part time. And Catelyn and Ned offered to help out, but no, Sansa wanted to stand on her own two feet and do it all by herself. Stupid, stupid girl. If she had only accepted the help she was offered, she would not have put everyone at risk.

After a thorough check on her family and her background, and after being approved by Joffrey himself, Sansa got the job. During her third month of working for him, she found the ledger. Joffrey, sloppy and careless as he was, probably forgot to put it back in the safe Sansa knew was hidden behind the large Lioness portrait of Cersei. Cersei. Mother of lions. Sansa huffs. Sarcasm has become a close companion of her, these days. “More like Lioness of alcohol, boy toys and Botox.”

Sansa was raised well, and knew better than to interfere with other people’s business. But she also inherited her father’s inquisitive nature. And before she could help herself, she made sure no one was around (Joffrey was still in bed), sat down on his chair and started flipping through the pages, looking for nothing in particular.

It was all there. Names. Dates. Transaction details on every bit of stinking, criminal activity of the Lannisters. The names, addresses and contact information of every business partner, customer, bribed civil servant, cop, supplier. All of it. Her heart was racing, but Sansa continued flipping through the pages, memorizing what she could. She never noticed Cersei standing in the doorway of Joff’s office.

Everything that happened after that happened so fast, Sansa can’t remember all the details of the following days. She managed to blurt out some excuse when Cersei asked her what the hell she was doing, sitting at Joffrey’s desk. She tried to act normal, that much Sansa remembers. And she came up with some lame excuse, that Joffrey had asked her to make a report based on some notes he had on his desk, somewhere. So she came, looking for the notes. But Sansa was a terrible liar. And Cersei had a royal nose for sniffing out lies when she heard them. “I’ll be right back”, Cersei had said. “Don’t you go anywhere.” As soon as Cersei turned her back, Sansa tore out as many pages as she could from the ledger, stuffed them in her bag and made a run for it.

When she came home, no one was there. Thank god. Sansa kicked out her heels, changed into something more comfortable, took the cash she had saved for uni from her money box, stuffed underwear, socks, jeans and some clothes in the duffle bag she took from Arya’s room, filled another bag with whatever other necessities she could think of, leaving her credit card, keys, wallet and iPhone on the bed. She ran to the first thing she could think of: the train station.

Leaving home broke her heart into a thousand tiny pieces so small, that she still isn’t sure if they will ever fit together quite like they did before. Sansa imagines they changed her heart; its shape, and size and warmth. It functions, the beats are steady, but it’s smaller. There are holes where her friends and family used to be. Telling anyone about what she found, even if it was by accident, would mean putting everyone she loves at risk. So she leaves. Takes the pain and the guilt and the shame, lives from one hour to the next, makes no plans for next month, or the next day, keeps her distance, and stays small and alone and to herself, confiding in no one. She is living without really living, so her family may live. And the lidded box in the corner of her mind becomes a vault with a lock and the key to the lock is gone. 

 


	5. 5.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the POV's! In this particular chapter... Neh. Best you read for yourself :)  
> Thank you, dear Leigh, for your advice on this one. You are the best.

5.

After talking to Sandor, Bronn hangs up. From now on, every step they take, and every decision that comes next, is going to be crucial. It’s good that he thought of hiring his old protégé for this particular job. When his old co-worker and friend Ned contacted some months ago, he could immediately tell that something was up. It was clear from the sound of Ned’s voice. Stark tried his best to remain calm, but in the years they worked together on the force, Bronn got to know his former partner pretty well.

“Hey Bronn, good speaking with you again,” Ned had said. And that was all it took.

“Ned. What’s wrong?” A long pause on the other end of the line, reminding Bronn of that moment of peaceful serenity right before a storm.

“I’m going to have to call in that favor, Bronn,” Ned said. “Sansa, you know, my eldest daughter…” Bronn could hear Ned swallowing. “I believe she’s in trouble. She left the house and we have no idea where she is.”

“Okay, buddy. Why do you think something is the matter? Have you tried reaching her?” Bronn could hear Ned swallowing again.

“I have. And I heard her phone go off. That’s when we found it, lying on her bed. Something is up, man. She left her wallet, her phone and other stuff. But she packed, too. She emptied her piggy bank, I think she has taken cash money with her. There’s no note, none that we were able to find, anyways. Cat is going through her e-mails now."

Bronn felt slightly alarmed. He knew Sansa from when he still worked with her dad. If anything, she struck him as a particularly sensible little girl. But girls grow up, become teens and young women. He would need more information before assessing the situation. “I see. When did you notice she was gone?”

“A couple of hours ago. She should have been at home around 5:45. Sansa still lives with us. We thought maybe she had plans after work, and she forgot to tell us that she wouldn’t be home for dinner. But we didn’t hear from her. At around 9:00, we tried calling. That’s when we noticed the stuff missing from her closet.”

“Okay. Let’s get some facts straight. She did not come home, and when you tried to reach her, you found her phone lying on the bed. Next to her wallet. But there are clothes missing from her closet and you say that she has probably taken money with her?”

“Correct,” Ned agreed.

“I don’t want to make you feel like I’m making light of the situation, Ned”, Bronn said, choosing his words carefully. “But isn’t it possible that Sansa, being a young woman, is just going out, you know, having fun with friends? Or maybe her boyfriend?”

“I don’t think so, Bronn. She isn’t dating anyone. And I know it’s been a while since you last saw my daughter. Otherwise you would know better than to think she’d ever leave the house without bringing her iPhone. Fuck, she’s practically married to the thing.” Ned took another breath. “And there’s one more thing. Cat and I didn’t know until we found a digital paycheck in her mail just now. Jesus, Bronn. Sansa has been working for the Lannisters.”

 

***

When Sandor arrives at Bronn’s place that night, he feels the shitty mood he has been in all week rise to new heights. He curses himself for saying ‘okay’, when Bronn asked him to help out on a particularly risky mission. But Sandor has never been a man to shy away from a challenge. His work has been one of the few things that still gave him pride and a sense of purpose, since a vicious acid attack caused him to lose nearly half of his face, almost six years ago. Sandor doesn’t know what hurt more; the sensation of feeling his skin and muscle tissue slowly melting away, fiber by fiber, or the fact that it was his own brother who threw the fucking acid at him. Sandor closes his eyes and shakes his head, hoping to shake the memory with it. But it’s there every time he’s out in public, or every time he sees his reflection in one of the shop windows he keeps trying to avoid.

Sandor has known Bronn for about three years. Bronn was one of the very first people who could manage to look him in the face, without flinching or looking away. It wasn’t a social call; Bronn came looking for information on Gregor Clegane. Sandor was more than happy to answer any questions. And after trying his hand at being a PI, his own man – no new costumer could see past that face and he wasn’t exactly a wiz kid, so trying to find cases using the www wasn’t panning out - and failing miserably; Sandor said yes when Bronn Blackwater offered him a job at BPI. 

Had he known beforehand that the assignment would involve finding and ensuring the safety of a breathtakingly beautiful redhead, a fucking Stark at that, Sandor would have said no before Bronn could have blinked his eyes twice. But being a fucking bastard as it may, Sandor is also a man of his word. And so here he is, about to map out a strategy with Bronn. As he pulls up to Bronn’s driveway, Sandor shakes his head one more time before leaving the car to go meet with his boss.

***

Cersei meant to be hard on her son, she really did. This kind of immature carelessness was unforgivable. Should the information the little Stark bitch got her filthy paws on fall into the wrong hands, all hell would break loose. Cersei takes another sip of her red wine, barely registering the taste.

But she understands better than most what it is like to feel the burden of great responsibility at a young age. She lost her mother when she was very young. Tywin, her father, expected Cersei and her brother Jaime to rule the empire whenever he had other business to attend to, which was often. As soon as Cersei turned 18, Tywin officially made Cersei his right hand. She would run important divisions of the family business.

It still makes her proud. Tywin has always been a conservative man, with traditional values. But he chose her over her two brothers. Her twin, Jamie is a womanizer before anything else. And Tyrion. Gods, Tyrion. The imp cares more for his books than he does the Family. No, Tywin needed a fierce leader. Someone who would rule the empire with a merciless, iron hand. He needed Cersei. 

Cersei could afford no mistakes. Her father had ears and eyes everywhere. He knew everything. One slip up, and she would lose her position and her claim to the Family fortune, Jaime would see to that. So she was perfect in every sense. No missteps, no mercy.

But Cersei remembers. The constant strain. No matter how hard she worked and worked, not a single word of approval from her father. Not fucking once. But Cersei is not her father. When she confronted her son, Joffrey was quick to budge after a little pressure and he came clean almost immediately. He told her about how he had become curious and took the ledger to his office and how he then got distracted and left it lying around on his desk.

Cersei feels sad for her son. The poor boy cried. It was then that she decided to handle the situation herself. Tywin would never have to know.  

So Cersei gathers her own Council. She gives them simple instructions: find her. Bring her to me. Four months after the first gathering, Cersei received a text. ‘We have an address.’

That was yesterday. Cersei finishes her wine, pours herself another. The liquid filling her glass is as red as blood. Blood. There will be blood. This is war. Sansa will know the true meaning of the Fury of the Lion.


	6. 6.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei knows of Sansa's whereabouts. Meanwhile, Bronn and Sandor get together to talk strategy. Bronn asks Sandor what he has been dreading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while! This is a short one. But one that tells us a little more about what is going on in Sandor's mind. It won't be long now...  
> Please let me know what you think of this story so far, and of this chapter, if you can spare a moment. I am here to entertain, and to learn! 
> 
> Thank you! <3

6.

Some days she’s close to throwing the torn ledger pages in her bag and handing them over to the officers at the police station, not far from where her work is. She fantasizes about hiring a professional, someone brave and protective and strong, to help her confront the Lannisters. Yeah, she’ll have them brought to justice! Sansa laughs, but not with joy. Or maybe the media. Surely they would love a story on a family as prolific and high society-esque as the Lannisters.

For a couple of minutes, she allows herself these fantasies. They help her to take her mind off of things. Only to feel extremely childish right after. A little ashamed, even. She is a grown woman. She made her own bed. And Sansa may be impulsive and a little naïve, she knows damn well doesn’t stand a single chance against the Lannisters. Sure as hell not by herself. And there is no one else. Sansa would have better luck convincing a Grand Jury of the fact that president Obama should be locked up for life over killing a goldfish.

Sansa walks home, shivering from the rain that keeps falling from the sky. It’s a dark night and the moon struggles to shed a dim blue light through the dense clouds, but to little avail. The streets seem deserted. Her surroundings are a perfect reflection of her state of mind. Allowing herself to think of her family and to feel sorry for herself, like she did back in the park just now, can no longer be an option. Sansa has to keep her head up, and block whatever was her life before from her mind, her heart and her memories. If she is to survive this, she has to. She zips up her hoodie as far as it will go and tugs at the hood to cover most of her face.

 

***

Sandor balls his hand into a fist, but before he has a chance to knock, Bronn opens the door. The frown on his face seems deeper than usual. He hasn’t shaved and the wrinkles framing the brown eyes of his boss and the bags under his eyes serve as an undeniable reminder that this is not your routine assignment.

“You took your sweet fucking time getting here,” grunts Bronn.

Sandor arches an eyebrow. This is going to be a fun meeting. “I came as fast as I could and I’m here now. So let’s get to it.”

Bronn has never been a man of courtesies and social conventions. Not wasting time taking Sandor’s coat or offering him a beverage, Bronn lays out the plan he has drawn up to get the Stark girl to safety.

“It’s clear as day. I don’t know how the fuck they’ve managed to do so, but I just received confirmation from my informant. The Lannisters have her address. They know where she is. So there’s no time to lose.”

Sandor feels his heart starting to beat a little faster, as Bronn takes a moment to catch his breath. At his age, there are only so many words he can spit out without inhaling. He lights his cigarette before continuing.

“You know of the safe house. It is the only place I have been able to think of. As you know, we can’t contact the bloody police and ask for assistance. God knows who the Lannisters have on their pay roll. Fucking assholes. I can’t tell Ned about what our plans are, either. It’s too risky. Fuck, from now on, everything is to be considered a risk, you got that?”

“No police,” Sandor replies simply, nodding, his heart accelerating a little more.

“What else?”

“We gotta move. Everything has been put into place. The safe house is ready, I arranged means of transportation and all supplies are at the place. Loras is setting up comms as we speak. I have other men watching the girl right now. But we gotta hurry.”

Bronn let’s out another breath. “It is worse than I thought, Clegane. Cersei, the Lioness bitch herself, has made it her top priority to get her hands on the girl. We can’t let that happen, you understand me?”

Squinting his eyes, Sandor clenches his fists. Adrenaline and a strange, familiar sensation that says ‘flight’ enter his system like an uninvited but persistent guest. He knows what Bronn is about to say next.

“It means that I need someone to get the girl, bring her to the location and keep her safe, no matter the cost. No matter what. I need someone who knows what they’re doing. I need someone I can trust blindly.”

Sandor arches his eyebrow again, looking at Bronn. He can feel the muscles in his shoulders and neck tensing up, like the long fingers of a powerful hand, slowly closing around his throat.

Bronn blinks, looking at Sandor.

“Clegane, I’m gonna need you to get the girl and take her to the safe house.”

 

***

He knew it. He fucking knew it. Sandor looks in the rear view mirror of the jeep that Bronn has arranged for the particular mission at hand. Mission? How about fucking nightmare? How the fuck is he supposed to convince the Stark girl to leave the safety of her home and come with him?

He was never much to look at. Too tall, too bulky, too intimidating. And that was before brother dearest decided to throw a bit of acid his way. Studying himself, he can already imagine what is going to happen. There’s no fucking way the Stark girl is going to come willingly. She’ll scream, cry or pass out before he has a chance to say: ‘Hi, miss Stark. I am going to need you to come with me, okay? You can trust me, I’ll keep you safe!’

He knows the doctors did what they could after he was first brought in. But there is only so much that reconstructive surgery and skin grafts could fix after the acid feasted on the right side of his face. Plus his fucking insurance wasn’t going to cover anything more than what was ‘strictly necessary to regain as much function as possible’. Sandor stares at the marbled flesh that covers parts of what used to be his cheek, jaw and forehead. He’s lucky he still has both of his eyes. But the scarring is prominent. Always there. And he can forget about sporting a nice full beard. Last time he checked, that required actual hair to grow around the jaw line. Sandor hits the steering wheel of his barrowed vehicle. Again. Another time, hard. Fuck.

As he drives home to grab whatever shit he needs, Sandor takes the elastic band out of his hair to let it fall freely around his ugly mug. That’s the least he can do to help himself. He hates feeling this way. He’s a grown man, fucking 34 years old. He has been through hell and he is still standing. He doesn’t need anyone, and no one needs him. But all it takes to bring back the feelings of wanting to hide, hide away and never come out, is Bronn asking him to help in keeping an innocent young woman safe. 

 

 


	7. 7.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready? Enter Baelish.

7.

After getting home, Sansa locks the door, checks her locks thrice and makes a straight line to the old leather couch in her living room. It’s not much to look at. Sansa bets the couch saw the lights of this world before she herself did. But it’s comfy. And she’s thankful it came with the place she rented with the help of Jenny, her employer.

Taking off her rain soaked hoodie and drying her hair with the fluffy towel she grabbed, slowly a little warmth returns to her body. Undoing the wet braid and using her fingers to comb out the worst knots, Sansa’s mind wanders off to the dream the old lady told her about. The warning.

It has been a couple of months now. And for a while, Sansa believed she had truly pulled her shit together. At least she was safe. Away from her family, her friends, her life. But away from Joff, Cersei and Tywin, as well.  

She thought that maybe if she waited long enough, the Lannisters would somehow stop looking for her. And maybe, just maybe, she could think of a way to work herself out of the mess she was in. Changing into sweatpants, slippers and a t-shirt and turning on the television to watch whatever is on, Sansa decides to make some tea.  She watches the water until it starts to boil, holding her hands over the pan to warm them up.

She thought of hiring a courier to send the papers back to the Lannisters. It could work. She has gone over it a hundred times in her mind. Returning what she took. Would that not be the right thing to do? But there’s a risk. Looking out the window, nothing reminds Sansa of the warmth that meant living with Ned and Catelyn. She covered so many miles. Train after bus after train. She walked until her feet hurt so bad, she thought her shoes might turn red from the bleeding blisters. Further down south she went.

The landscape became flatter, the air less thick. And warmer. And though she’s far away, Sansa bets the Lannisters would find some way of tracking down where the papers were sent from. There is no way out of this.

Sitting on the couch, Sansa realizes that she is beyond tired. Tired of being careful. Of being alone. Of watching her every step. Of reprimanding herself for taking those stupid papers. Reprimanding herself for thinking she could fix anything by sending the pages back. Everything seems so pointless. Being scared takes up more energy than the hot lemon tea can replenish.

***

A familiar voice whispers.

“You’re not alone here.”

Unaware of the fact that she is dreaming, Sansa clutches the fleece blanket she curled up on the couch with. Cold sweat drips down her back. Such a childish notion; to think that hiding under the covers would keep her hidden from the world.

In her dream, Sansa has trouble seeing what is right before her. Putting a lock of red behind her ear, her vision becomes a little clearer. She is in the forest. The leaves of tall, old trees standing side by side, reminding her of soldiers are a blanket, not allowing any light to come through. Sansa takes a breath, shivers. It’s dark. Sansa is scared, afraid to look around. She feels the sting of bright, yellow eyes on the back of her head. Her shoulders. Her back. They’re everywhere. Waiting, but not moving. There is no sound.

Sansa closes her eyes. This must be a dream. After waiting for what seems like an hour, she opens her eyes to welcome the darkness again. Mrs. Johnson is standing to her left, seemingly unaware of Sansa’s presence. Sansa slowly turns to watch Mrs. Johnson’s face. Mrs. Johnson is there, but she isn’t. She doesn’t look Sansa in the eye. But Sansa can see her eyes; they are completely black. Open, but unseeing. Mrs. Johnson turns to face Sansa, too.

“I see nature. You are dancing. Under the safety of the willow. But trees wither, my dear. And her branches can only reach so far. You are buried under the willow tree. But not gone. Awake, but so, so still. A scream, but no sound. He will laugh.”

Mrs. Johnson opens her mouth and screams and screams and screams. Her mouth opens further and further, but there is no sound. Drenched in sweat, Sansa awakes to the sound of her own crying.

 

***

Petyr licks his lower lip, sucking on it a little before letting go. The Stark girl is the spitting image of her mother Cat, back when she was younger. Ah, the good old days. Thinking of ways he could make the girl please his every wish, is almost too much to handle. But he will have his way with her before leaving pretty, pretty Sansa Stark to the mercy of the Lioness.  The sound of his phone going off pulls Petyr out of his daydream.  

“Baelish, god damn it. Where are you and why the hell have you not brought me the girl yet?”

There is no mistake. Cersei is losing her patience, fast. The girl wronged Cersei’s favorite cub. Amused, Petyr holds the phone away to put some distance between the loud voice of his caller and his ear.

“Cersei, my beautiful lioness. Surely you can appreciate the delicacy needed in the assignment you have given the Council? You will have the girl, my love. I have given you my word, have I not? But we have to be careful in how we proceed.”

Feeling a little complacent grin appearing on his freshly shaven face, Petyr holds the phone a little closer to his face again, making sure Cersei understands him very clearly. 

 “We have planned everything very carefully. You know you asked me to handle this personally because I always take care of every detail.” 

 Petyr can hear Cersei sighing impatiently on the other end of the line.

 “I know damn well why I hired you, Petyr. But I am tired of waiting. And you would do well to remember who is paying who, in this matter.” 

"I am on my way to her right now. Why don’t you have another glass of the wine I brought you. Think of the ways you will make the girl pay. And leave the rest up to me. Hmm? You will have the girl before midnight, Cersei. As was the deal.” 

After Cersei breaks the connection, Petyr makes a right turn, walking up the street with tall apartment buildings on each side. He is getting close. He knows it, as he knows every other little detail of the life miss Stark has been living as of late. But he can feel it too. An odd sensation, full of promise and reward for his hard work. Petyr licks his lips again before crossing the street.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you again to everyone who has been reading this story so far! I am very new to this writing game and I realize I have a lot to learn, but I love writing more than I thought I would. Please forgive any grammar errors on my part; witing in English continues to be a challenge. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	8. 8.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone is at Sansa's door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you will enjoy this chapter. Sorry for all the cliffhangers. But I gotta do something to keep you all coming back for more! ;-)
> 
> Thank you AdultOrphan for your feedback.
> 
> The song that was originally featured in this chapter, is Amen by Jewel (from her album Pieces of you). This song just literally popped into my head as I was writing. It has some references in it that I think go along nicely with this pairing and the story that is beginning to unfold. (strange bird trying to fly? a forest? hair aflame? mother's child?).

8.

 

In those few seconds of slumber between sleep and waking up, when it’s hard to focus, to tell what is real and what’s not, Sansa gasps for air, desperate to allow some air and light into her lungs. She feels like screaming.

Crying will do no her good, so Sansa fights to push back the tears, ignoring the sting of them burning behind her eyes. Telling herself it was just a dream, you’re home, you’re safe, there’s no one here but you, nothing is wrong. But _everything_ is wrong. She doesn’t feel safe. The Lannisters will find her. Today, tomorrow, six months from now. It’s nothing short of a miracle that they haven’t found her already.

Sansa struggles to catch her breath. The tears, silent and stingy and thick, know no bounds, picking and hacking and chipping away at her resolve to steel herself, and calm down, and so Sansa gives in. For the first time since running away and burning bridges, severing every tie to who she was before, the wind has been knocked out of her so fully, that Sansa allows herself to feel.

She sits in silence and lets the tears come for some time. Sansa is unsure of how long she has been sitting, waiting. With each tear that fell, a little hope fell with it, making Sansa feel numb. Taking off her clothes, hugging herself in an attempt to help her body find back some of the warmth that left, Sansa walks to the bathroom. A scalding hot shower might be good. Sansa flips on the light. They hurt her mangled eyes a little.

The hot water feels nice, though Sansa barely registers the sensation of it. Other than the lavender smell of her favorite shower gel, there is little distraction or comfort. Sansa feels empty. Tired, but too afraid to close her eyes again any time soon. She thinks of a song again, and hums along with a soft and unsteady voice. 

 

***

Sandor steps on the gas of the SUV Bronn hooked him up with. He is a creature of habit, finds comfort in the familiar shapes, feels and smells of the car he’s had for years. But he’s gotta hand it to Bronn. The man knows his cars. The black vehicle is discrete, spacious enough and fast.

In a matter of minutes, Sandor drives from Bronn’s place to his own. His house may not be much, there is a truth and an honesty in the lack of decoration and the bareness of it all that he loves. This is the only place where he gets to be himself, no hiding, no angry, brooding face as a shield to keep people at bay.

Throwing the large, black duffel bag on the bed, quickly and routinely Sandor gathers what he needs for the task at hand. Walking to his kitchen, the fucking fridge empty again, Sandor remembers he has a good bottle of whisky in his emergency stash. He is a fucking 34 year old man with a secret stash of booze. Shaking his head and smirking, he grabs the bottle of the single malt Dalwhinnie and throws it in with the rest of his stuff. ‘You’ll fucking need it, dog,’ he says to himself. Taking a deep breath, Sandor gathers his things, looks around the place one last time like he’s about to leave it forever and heads back to the car.

Looking at the bag on his passenger seat, Sandor much longs for a good sip of the whisky he tossed in there. The pump of adrenaline, slowly but surely curling around his spine, up and up, is creeping and crawling its way back into his system. Being back at his place, even if it was just to pack stuff, helped him forget about his circumstance for a second. The feeling of having to act fast has pressed on him since slamming Bronn’s front door.  

Turning the key, the engine starts and roars, reminding Sandor of the sound the lion king would make. The feeling of calm is quickly forgotten, making way for the adrenaline and the frustration, more and more with every inch he gets closer to the Stark girl.

 

***

Petyr shudders at the prospect of the girl, red hair, pink cheeks, putting her full lips – if she truly resembles Cat when she was still Catelyn Tully – around his stiff cock, moving slow, gods, so slow, building up the speed and the tension and the pressure, guided by him as he yanks her hair, uses his thighs to keep her head in place and his fingers to keep her eyes open and make, _make_ her look at what she is doing.

His cock stirs in the skinny black jeans Petyr is wearing for the occasion. He will have his way with the girl. He hopes she will resist, fight him, really fight him. His cock stiffens even more at the thought of Sansa, delicate, gracious, a fucking _lady_ , being completely subdued, and at his sole mercy. He has fantasized about it more than he has about anything else. In his fantasy, her eyes are always wide with fear. It’s even better when she cries.

Petyr uses all the willpower he can muster up, not to take his dick out in public and stroke himself, right then and there. He is a professional. So he banishes the girl from his mind, but only for a little while, so he can focus on what he needs to do. Crossing another street, Petyr can finally see the crappy apartment building the girl has been calling home, lately. This is not the best part of town. Hobos on every street corner. Empty stores and offices, unmaintained front lawns, graffiti on pretty much every wall. He will do her a favor by snatching her from this fucking place. Sansa should be grateful. She will owe him.

Thinking of the girl makes his dick hard again. ‘But don’t worry, my sweet,’ Petyr says to none but himself. I’ll be coming for you.’

 

***

 

Sansa gets out of the shower. Using her hand to clear the mirror of the moisture that has gathered there to hide her reflection, she isn’t surprised to see her eyes are heavy lidded and red. The sound of water running is gone. There’s just her, and the silence.

Sansa looks at herself as new tears well up in her eyes. She doesn’t care. They’re welcome. Picking up the towel, Sansa dries her hair and then the rest of her body before wrapping the towel around herself and walking over to the living room. As Sansa leans down to turn off the television, she is scared to death by the sound of a loud knock on the door.

“Miss Stark! Are you there? Please, open the door. This is important. Miss Stark!”

There’s another knock on the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're mother's child  
> But night lays you down  
> Hair aflame, wild look in your eye  
> Naked belly to the ground  
> A forest fire  
> Nibbles at your veins  
> Crawls up your arm  
> Runs away with your mind  
> And burns dry thoughts like leaves  
> Amen
> 
> Eyes stare up  
> But something's in the way  
> In the Bible only angels have wings  
> And the rest must wait to be saved  
> A dry tongue  
> Screams at the sky  
> But the wind just breathes words in  
> As a strange bird tries to fly  
> Amen
> 
> Pieces of us die everyday  
> As though our flesh were hell  
> Such an injustice, as children we are told  
> That from God we fell,  
> Where are my angels?  
> Where's my golden one?  
> Where is my hope  
> Now that my heroes have gone?  
> Some are being beaten  
> Some are being born  
> And some can't tell  
> The difference anymore  
> Amen
> 
> You can check the studio version of the song here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BLqI-cvFW6s  
> If you like, I highly recommend giving it a good listen. Jewel has an amazing vocal range and this song hits me right in the feels. Every. Single. Time.


	9. 9.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without further ado: we find out who is just outside Sansa's door.  
> This is a bit of a grim chapter. I had no idea where I was going to go with this story as I started writing it, but it seems I like writing dark stuff. I hope you enjoy this chapter, please take a minute to let me know your thoughts on this chapter or the story so far. It means more to me than you know! 
> 
> If you would like some fun, fresh stuff on SanSan, something a little lighter, I highly recommend 'Coffee, Tea or Me?' right here on AO3. It is Sandor with a toolbelt. C'mon, you gotta love that :D It is by Cecilia1204 and you can read it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7224976/chapters/16399534
> 
> <3

9.

The rug is pulled from under her feet at the soft, slightly beckoning sound of her name, spoken by a voice she doesn’t seem to know, and Sansa is like a deer in the headlights. Every muscle, fiber and nerve in her body scream to get the fuck out, but she stands, frozen, glued to the spot.

Jerking her head towards the door, the window, and the door again, Sansa desperately clings to the back of the couch in an attempt to steady herself. Giant balls of cotton are where her brain should be. No matter how hard she tries to think of what she should do next, all logic has left her mind.

Bile rises in the back of her throat as a burst of adrenaline replaces every single drop of blood in her veins. Sticky and thick and strong it runs through her bloodstream, racing from limb to limb, to the back of her neck, her temples and her eye sockets, tugging and jerking at every nerve in her body, short-circuiting her system.

She closes her eyes, tightening the muscles around her throat in an attempt to suck some air into her lungs. With all her might, Sansa tries to remain calm. She has thought about this scenario before. Under her bed is a small bag with a few things she can take with her. All she needs to do is dash to the bedroom, put on some clothes, grab the bag and leave.

But danger is closer than it was when she thought of the scenarios in her head. There is someone at her door. There is no safe fire escape she can use to find her way outside. She is wet, wrapped in a towel, with eyes foggy from all the sorrow and heartache that came pouring from them just minutes before.

Another series of knocks on the door, louder, compelling, make Sansa back away a few steps as she bumps into her salon table. The adrenaline registers no pain. There is just the all-encompassing panic.

“Sansa? Are you there? Sansa? I know you’re there, sweetling. Why don’t you open the door for me, hmm?”

Sansa’s eyes turn wide with fear. Bringing her hand to her mouth, she realizes she was wrong in assuming the Lannisters would come and find her for themselves. It’s Petyr Baelish at her door.   

 

***

‘Fucking hell,’ Sandor curses under his breath. A mirthless smirk forms on the good side of his face as he shakes his head. He should have known this mission would be an absolute, fucking agony. ‘Just put a bag over your face, Dog, and she’ll come with, no worries’, Sandor says to himself. The problem at hand is no longer how he is going to convince the Stark girl to come with him.

After parking the car, Sandor noticed the small statured man soon enough. Too well dressed to be walking around in this part of town. Too slick. With too purposeful a step. He doesn’t know the man in question. But Sandor knows what scum looks like.  

With stealth skills surprising for a man of his size and frame, Sandor loosens his holster and follows the man to the building of the girl he is to bring to safety: Sansa Stark.

The man in black picks up his pace when he nears the Stark girl’s house. As he makes a turn, Sandor can see his face from the side. He has small black eyes. His hair is dark grey, with lighter hairs near his temples. A short, well-groomed goatee frames his narrow mouth. The look on his face is best described as haughty. Presumptuous. Sandor sees him licking his lips.

Sandor flexes his muscles. His old companion has returned. Rage controls his movements; fists clenching, jaw set. Instinct kicks in and knowing what to do next, Sandor feels like a guest inside his own body. Sandor is by no means an angel. He has a criminal background. He has hurt people. But if there is one thing he can’t stand, it is men like this smug fuck he is following. The kind of men that hurt women and children. Sandor has an infallible radar to recognize the type; his father was no different. The corner of Sandor’s mouth twitches at the thought.

They are almost at her house. Sandor is beside himself with rage, and dead calm at the same time. This man is not planning on visiting the Stark girl for a tea party. Probably a henchman for the Lannisters. And Sandor has orders: her safety before anything else. Sandor picks up his pace, making sure to keep enough distance between the man he follows and himself. He nears the stairs of her home.

 

***

Realizing she can’t wait around and do nothing – Petyr Baelish is at her door for a reason, to get her, he won’t disappear if you just close your eyes, Sansa – and eying the door intently, Sansa tiptoes to her bedroom. Her heart is pounding, going so fast, and for a second Sansa fears Mr. Baelish can hear  it through the dense wood of her front door, the only barrier between herself and her gentleman caller.

Another knock on the door drags a small, high-pitched shriek from Sansa’s lips. Shit! Using her hand to cover her mouth again, a new gush of adrenaline finds its way to her nerves. Her eyes fly towards her bedroom. She is so close.

The knocking stops. Sansa holds her breath, unable to move.

“Sansa. Open the door. I heard you. I know you are in there. Open the door, sweetling. Open the door, or I will o…” -

Sansa turns hear head towards the door a little, focusing her ears. For a fraction of a second, there is silence. Then she hears a muffled scream. It is hard to tell what is going on, but Sansa thinks the sounds can only come from Petyr Bealish.

Sounds of rustling fabric, a struggle. A kick or knock of something just oudside her door. A slow, dragging sound, something falling and then there is nothing but silence.

 

***

Sandor arrived just in time. The man was in a hurry to get to the girl, making a straight line to her door. He was short, but incredibly fast.

The man knocked. And again, telling her to open up. On the other side of the door, the girl let out a scream. Sandor could hear the fear in it, the desperation. No more of that.

There was little struggle. The man seemed utterly surprised when Sandor put a large hand around his neck, making sure he would not be able to scare the girl any further by the threatening words pouring out of his cunt mouth. And for once, having a fucked up face actually worked to his advantage, Sandor thinks to himself. One look at him and the man went from surprised to terrified. It didn’t last long. Sandor snapped his neck within seconds.

“You’ll not be knocking on any doors any time soon, fucking asshole.”

As Sandor gazes down at the lifeless body of Petyr Baelish, he sees the look of terror and disbelief has not left the man’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little while back, I added the Major Character Death tag as a warning. Rest assured; there will be no Sansa or Sandor death in this fic. But there will be bodies. This was just the first. Next chapter; maybe Sandor and Sansa will finally meet? It is a bit of a milestone, after all... Chapter 10. Thank you for reading!!


	10. 10.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10! Finally.  
> I must thank Leigh of Oldstones, who, again, kindly agreed to be my beta for this chapter. Leigh, thank you! You have helped me step out of a comfort zone, when I didn't realize I was in one. This chapter is better than it could ever have been without your help. I'd dedicate this story to you, if I hadn't already ^^ Love you, woman!  
> And now... The meet.

10.

Sandor feels the rage slowly leaving his body. It’s over, the immediate threat is gone. But that doesn’t mean the whole situation has stopped being a bit of a squeeze. Taking a deep breath and looking at the only thing now separating him from the Stark girl, he realizes the young woman must be scared to death, with no notion of what has just happened on her doorstep. She’s alone, trapped and completely unaware that Sandor, who she’s about to meet if she cooperates the way Sandor hopes against his better judgment, is one of the good guys. He may not have the appearance of one, but he swore he’d keep her safe no matter the price.

The cost of keeping that promise is still lying at his feet, a motionless reminder that it’s time to move forward. The frustration and anxiety he felt before, right after leaving Bronn’s house, return and slowly but surely find a place to nestle inside his body. Because there is still the matter of actually having to face her.

It was hard enough thinking about seeing the girl in person, feeling exposed and bare, with no way to hide his scars, having to convince the girl to pack up and leave. With him. He’s had a couple of years to get used to his burned appearance and the response he gets from people when they first see him. Found ways to avoid having to be around people. And when Sandor has to, he can handle the looks and not get affected by them too much anymore. But it’s different now. He’s not on his own clock. Someone is counting on him. And to complicate things further, there is now this dead body lying at his feet.

What doesn’t help either, is that Sandor is sure the girl must have heard some things. He tried to be as fast and quiet as possible, but he’s a big guy. Working in the confined space of the hallway of her apartment building, so near to the entrance of her home, made for less than perfect circumstances. And he didn’t come out here looking to take a life. Sandor doesn’t enjoy killing for the fucking sake of it. He hates it. But it needed to be done. Running his hand through his hair, eyes on the dead body, Sandor knows she will realize that the man at his feet met his end by his hands. Being a killer is not going to work to his advantage. He needs to think of something, quick. Barely audible, he curses.

Contemplating texting Bronn for a second and asking him to send the ‘cleaner’ to help him get rid of the body, Sandor shakes his head at his own thoughts. Varys does a great job when called upon. He is the most discrete man in the business. Quiet, in and out, and gone. No trace. The man is a fucking magician, blessed with the talent of making anything disappear forever. Sandor thinks Varys would probably be able to get rid of something the size of Texas without breaking a sweat.

But Sandor is just looking to delay the confrontation, having to get eye to eye with the girl, and he knows it. And though Varys is a professional, there simply is no time. Knowing the Lannisters and going by the information Bronn provided him with, Sandor knows damn well they won’t give up on finding the girl. She took something, and Lannisters protect what is theirs. And now one of their own has been slaughtered. They’ll come for Sandor too, as soon as they find out the identity of the butcher.

Feeling uneasy and exposed even though they can’t see anything anymore, Sandor leans over to close the lifeless eyes of the man, allowing himself a single minute to figure out the best approach for what he needs to do next. It is easy, really. She has to leave. Now. And yes, she will eventually see him, the mess that is him, and she will have no choice but to come with. Fuck this. He can’t leave the body out here for all to see. Scanning the hallway of the apartment building, his eyes catch what looks like the opening of a large garbage shaft. Luckily the man is small; he should be able to fit right through. Bending over to hoist the body over his broad shoulder, Sandor walks over to the garbage shaft, sliding the body of the man through the hole. The short lived feeling of accomplishment he feels evaporates instantly.

Cursing again, biting on his lower lip, Sandor pulls the hood of his sweater over his face, let’s his hair fall over the bad side as far as it will go – thank god it is at a good length now - takes one last, deep breath and gathers all the courage he can muster up.

 

***

_Could he be..?_

Sansa is motionless, slightly bending her stiff, painful neck and focusing her ears toward the front door. Mr. Baelish was just banging on it, telling her to open up, and then he stopped mid-sentence. _Is he still there? What is happening?_

Looking down and realizing that amidst all the action and the panic she is still somewhere between her living room and her bedroom where she was heading to put on some damn clothes, Sansa finds she can’t get her feet to move.

Silence stretches on for what feels like a couple of minutes, helping Sansa to come to her senses a little more, enough to walk over to her bedroom, one step at a time. She’s about to cross the threshold when she decides to wait just a single second longer, hoping to make out any sound indicating that somehow Mr. Baelish gave up on trying to get her to let him in. Listening intently, focusing her ears and keeping her eyes on the door, the silence continues. It is time to act.

Feeling thankful that she forgot to put on her slippers and being able to walk very quietly because of it, Sansa gets to her bedroom, releases the towel she wrapped around her body after her shower, puts on her favorite bra, panties and socks and reaches for the jeans she left on the chair in the corner of her bedroom. The silence is a blessing after a sea of noise, panic and ruckus, allowing her to do what she needs to do. Just as she is about to zip up her jeans, the sound of another, loud knock on her front door catches Sansa completely off guard.

The sound is an unexpected and unwelcome interruption after the silence, and Sansa struggles to keep her balance. Shit. Desperately reaching for the bag, pulling it from under her bed, and pulling the hoodie off her chair in a swift, slightly uncontrolled motion – _forget about a shirt, this isn’t a fashion show, I have to get out of here NOW_ – Sansa involuntarily lets out a rather loud shriek when there’s a second knock, followed by the hoarse sound of someone clearing their throat, making the hairs on her arms stand up.  

***

It’s soft and very short, but Sandor hears the girl cry out.

Good, she’s still in there. And alive, by the sound of it. After knocking again, Sandor coughs past a catch in his throat and finds his raspy, low voice.

“Ahem. Miss Stark? Would you be so kind as to open up?”

Sandor could smack himself so hard, his eyeballs would come out through the back of his own head, taking bits of his stupid ass brain with it. What the fuck is he thinking, talking to her in almost the same way the dead man did just before him?!

There’s no answer.

 _Of course there’s no answer, Clegane._ _What the fuck. She’s not going to come out and say ‘hey’, just because you ask her to open up._ Sandor coughs again, cursing himself for not doing better, not thinking this through, and gets himself ready for another attempt.  

“Sansa Stark? Look, I get that you’re scared. Can we talk? You’re safe now, okay? I’m not gonna hurt you. Can we please talk? So I can explain to you why I’m here?”

No reply.

This is not going as planned. At all. Bronn is counting on him to get her out. So is her father. And the girl deserves better than being scared and away from the people she loves, even if she made a damn stupid decision. Sandor feels like a fuck up, a god damn amateur. He wasn’t able to keep his sister safe from Gregor, but he’ll be damned if another young woman is going to be the victim of his failing. Fuck that.

Rage is slowly fighting its way back into his system, making it hard to remain calm and collected.  It’s not the girl he’s mad at. It’s the fucking absurdity of the situation he is in. The helplessness he feels. What a mess. There is no time. He needs to get the girl out of here. But he is fucking up, scaring her before anything else, doing the opposite of what he’s being paid to do, and it’s more than he knows how to handle. It’s one thing to be feel disappointed in himself; he’s used to that. He can’t let Bronn down. Or her family. Or the girl. She deserves better.

There’s no telling what the Lannisters will do when they find out their little man has been taken care of. They’ve got to go. But if the girl is not going to cooperate when being asked nicely, what the fuck happens when she gets to take a good look at him?

Sandor longs for a strong drink. _Not now, dog._

Feeling the limits of his calm and patience being tested and stretched severely, Sandor knocks on the door one last time. There is so much force behind the blow, he can feel the wood of the door give way.

“Sansa Stark. Sansa. Please. I understand you’re afraid. I know you have questions. But I can’t help you if you don’t open the door. Please open up so we can talk. There’s not much time. I’m here to help you. Please.”

***

Right next to the fear she has been feeling, a sense of anger overcomes Sansa. Who the hell is it at her door this time, if not Petyr Baelish? Whomever he is, he certainly sounds nothing like the small snake of a man she heard before. This voice is deep, rumbling, hoarse; with a different accent. All of a sudden Sansa has had it. These people, disturbing her peace at her own home. She will not open up, not for anyone, and she certainly is not going to let any stranger come in just ‘because they want to talk.’

Help me? My ass!Sansa is done being the helpless victim, hiding and keeping away. No more. She will take care of herself like she has been doing these past four months, and there will be no opening of the front door for a complete stranger, raspy voice and all. Forget about it.

Feeling a little more sure of herself and her newfound resolve, Sansa quickly puts her hair up in a bun, buttons her jeans, puts on her only pair of sneakers, quickly checking the contents of her escape bag. She is not going to get caught, not tonight. She’ll jump out the freaking window if she has to. Throwing her toiletries in the bag, Sansa shrieks again as a fresh series of knocks indicate this new person at her door is more insistent on getting in than the one before him. Feeling annoyed, alarmed, scared and _very_ pissed off at all at the same, Sansa looks over her shoulder again. She can see the door shudder from the force of someone banging on it from the other side.

***

Alright. If the girl is not going to listen to reason, not going to give him a fucking chance to explain, Sandor will find another way to get her to leave. Knocking and trying to talk to her is not getting him anywhere, so he chooses a different approach.

“Back away, Sansa,” he barks. “I’m going to break down this fucking door.”

After a few well aimed blows, his fist bloody from the impact, the door creaks, the wood splinters, cracks, and finally gives way.  

Panting with fatigue after landing the series of blows, Sandor enters the girl’s small apartment. Scanning the place quickly, he notices the door to the only other room visible from where he is standing. What is it with this woman and shutting doors?

His long legs need no more than three steps to reach the door to what Sandor can only guess is probably her bedroom. Putting his hand on the doorknob and surprising to find this door is not locked, Sandor yanks it open, swallowing hard at the sight he was not expecting to see, much less prepared for. He catches a glimpse of the girl he has only seen in photos before. She’s tall. Her large blue eyes are wide with fear, as she stands there, wearing nothing more than an old pair of jeans and an open hoodie.

Oh holy fuck, Sandor thinks to himself, after the girl crosses her arms in front of her chest. She is wearing a red bra. Her bust is something else. Shit.

Quickly averting his head, making sure to keep the burned side of his face away, he says: “Hi, Sansa. Sorry for barging in like this. My name is Sandor Clegane. Your father has hired my boss to find you and to keep you safe. We have to go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been longer than the updates I've published before. I was quite nervous about publishing. Will it not drag on too much? Or will it slow down the story too much, which so far has been rather compact? I am nervous still, but I enjoyed writing this very much. I hope you like it too. As always, feedback is very much appreaciated. Thanks again for reading! <3


	11. 11.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after the meet? As Sandor tries to think of a way to get Sansa to come with him, Sansa comes up with a plan of her own. Don't mess with the red head!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to my beta Leigh. She is a great and thoughtful editor and she makes me better. Leigh, you kick ass!! 
> 
> As always, your comments and feedback are much appreciated; they feed the writer. Especially now that the story is taking on a certain direction, and the chapters have gotten a bit longer. I've put a lot of time in writing this chapter, and would appreciate any feedback. Thank you for reading!!
> 
>  
> 
> <3

11.

Sansa is nailed to the spot at the first glimpse of the person behind the raspy, low voice that came from the other side of her front door only moments ago. A tall figure blocks the only exit in her sight. He’s wearing dark clothes, and his extremely broad shoulders are almost touching either side of her door frame. He’s looking away, having to keep his head down to avoid bumping it, and Sansa can only see one side of his face. Long tresses of straight, dark hair come out from under the hood he has pulled over his face. A strong, somewhat square jawline, a slightly hooked nose, hollow, gaunt looking cheek and the side of his mouth are all that his hood reveal. The man makes no effort to talk.

Much like her emotions, thoughts are tumbling over one another, making Sansa unsure what to think or feel at this particular moment. Or do. It’s all just so surreal. One moment she’s crying her eyes out for the first time in months, because she was no longer able to keep the feeling of being utterly alone submerged, swept under the rug. The next, she is caught between absolute panic and a rage so overwhelming that it functions as a fuel, getting the motor of her body up and running as she decided to make for her bedroom, get whatever she would need and think of a way to leave her home, through the darn window if she has to.

_Oh god, he’s tall. I’m never gonna make it past… that._

Standing half dressed in the room that was a safe haven of sorts, up until this point, still crossing her arms in front of her chest, the rage Sansa feels starts taking the upper hand as it reaches to new heights. She should try and slip past the stranger who invaded her privacy, lash out, scream at this hooded figure to get the hell out, call the cops, throw whatever she can get her hands on at him, all in an attempt to distract the tall man standing mere feet away from her, anything to just get out. Scanning the room quickly, nothing useful is within reach.

Backing away until the wall of her bedroom keeps her from moving away any further, the man continues to avoid eye contact. He has his hands up slightly, as if he is trying to reassure her that he’s not a threat. But he’s here. In her space, and she is trapped. He’s walking towards her. And that’s when the tumbling of emotions stops. Realizing with a numbing finality that there’s nowhere to go between the wall at her back and the tall figure filling out the entire doorpost of her bedroom, Sansa screams.

 

***

Okay. Step one is complete; the girl is still here. And he is in her home. Maybe things didn’t exactly go as planned, but at least he’s found her and he’s sort of introduced himself, reassuring her that he’s not here to do her any harm. And he’s trying not to be a total scumbag, looking away the second he realized she was still partially undressed.

A sight that can’t be unseen. Struggling to force the thought of what he just saw to the back of his mind, Sandor can think of nothing else to say or do at the present time, so he waits.

The girl averts her eyes, as they shoot left, right and left again, arms still crossed over her chest, taking another step back.

 _Shit, of course she is. She must be terrified_.

Sandor makes sure to keep only the good side of his in her line of sight; no use scaring her any further. In a clumsy attempt to try and explain himself, Sandor takes a small step towards her, holding his hands up slightly, as though speaking with his hands and gesturing will somehow help to win her trust any sooner. She backs away further immediately, eventually halted by the wall behind her. And that’s when all hell breaks loose as she starts to scream.

_Shit. The neighbors. Fuck!_

“Miss Stark, please! Stop screaming, girl. I’m not…”

Taking another, agitated step in her direction, Sandor notices the girl is scanning her surroundings intently. She looks like a prey animal, trapped; knowing it’s about to be killed. Following the direction of her eyes with his own, Sandor realizes she is seeking opportunity and she’s found it. Stepping in her direction meant leaving the doorway, making room for her to dash right past him. Sandor curses out loud, making the girl flinch as she leaps forward in a desperate attempt to flee.

Luckily, Sandor is fast in spite of his size and he has the reflexes of a wolf. She is fast too, and much to her credit, there’s a fire in her that surprises him. Ducking and making herself small, the girl runs right past. Using his right arm to stop her, Sandor throws it around her waist harder than he means to, as his left hand finds grip on the wooden framework of her door.

The girl falls silent, having the wind knocked out of her from the sudden impact. She is truly a feisty thing, Sandor thinks to himself as he pulls her near; her back to his chest, in an attempt to keep her from running away. He tries not to think of what the exposed skin of her slender belly feels like against his hand and forearm.

The girl isn’t going to give up without a fight, Sandor is reminded as she plants the elbow of her left arm to his ribs.

“Fuck!” Sandor belts out, partly in surprise, partly in anger, and mostly in pain.

“Sansa, you…”

Having her back pinned so close to his chest, the girl can’t turn her head around enough to see who it is, behind her. She is breathing heavily; the crown of her head is barely reaching his chin.

_Good. At least she can’t see me. Not just yet._

The girl seems to calm down a little at the mention of her name. Maybe she’s remembering what he told her before: I am here to keep you safe. Your father hired me.

Just as Sandor is about to loosen his grip, lowering his head to make sure she will absolutely hear what he is about to say next, she brings the back of her head up to his so hard, Sandor can hear a cracking sound coming from his nose, as blood starts running out of his nostrils. She tore his lip, too.

Great. His face hasn’t been breached enough as is.

“Fucking hell! Damnit, Sansa, I am here to help you!” Sandor bellows out as he releases the doorpost with his left hand, bringing it to his nose; tightening the grip he has on the girl again, this time making sure to secure her wrists as well. She is resistant, but to no avail. Sandor’s hand can easily encircle both of her wrists, keeping them in place.

Using the fingers of his left hand to assess the damage done and wiping the worst of the blood off his nose and lower lip, Sandor concludes that it is indeed broken. A small cry from the girl rushes Sandor back to his senses as he realizes he is probably hurting her by now; he releases the iron grip on her wrists a little. The girl whimpers, takes a ragged breath and starts crying softly, hanging her head, making him feel like an incompetent, absolute horror of a human being.

“Alright,” he says.

“Like I said, I am NOT here to hurt you, Sansa. Here’s what’s gonna happen. I am going to let go of your wrists in a little bit. Then you’ll go back to your bedroom, finish packing that bag I saw there, and we’re going to leave. You got that?”

It’s silent for a moment. The girl’s breathing slows down, as Sandor can feel with his hand on her bare stomach. She nods.

“Okay. I’m not the bad guy here. But there is someone after you, Sansa. The guy from before is no longer a problem, but there’ll be others. We’ve got to hurry. So work with me and you will be fine. I’ll know if you try to run. So don’t. Do you understand me?” Sandor demands.

The girl nods again.

***

Pressed up against the rock hard chest of the stranger who introduced himself before as Sandor, Sansa wills her mind to come up with a new strategy. Because right now she seems stuck. All she can do is wait for another shot. The man is going to have to let go of her at some point; he told her to finish packing her bag. And Sansa will not go down without a fight; he has a broken, bloody nose to remind him of that.

She knows she hurt him; the cussing, swearing and blood that came after the hit, serve as a testament to her head butting abilities. She’s not as tough as her sister Arya, but Sansa soon enough learned to toughen up, growing up in a household with mainly brothers.

The man keeps telling her not to be afraid, and that he’s not out to hurt her. But he’s broken into her home, and now refuses to let go of her, even if he’s loosened the grip around her middle, making it easier to breathe.

As the stranger releases both of her wrists from his large hand, Sansa considers placing another elbow between his ribs. But he’s probably more alert now, and prepared, unlike before. And there is no way she is going to win based on strength alone, so Sansa decides to use her mind instead and act as though she believes him. It should give her the benefit of surprise.

_He says he wants to leave. I should do as he says. Maybe I can try again after we leave the house. It’s dark and there’s probably no one is out at this hour, but it might be the only chance I’ve got._

So Sansa cooperates, keeping her arms and head down, her eyes away from the big man behind her. As he takes his arm from around her waist, he immediately steps back. Sansa thinks she can hear him touching his nose again, cussing and spitting blood.

Slowly, she makes her way back to the bedroom, trying to think about what else she can do, feeling afraid to look at the figure behind her. Zipping up her hoodie, she uses the long sleeves of the garment to wipe away the remnants of tears.

Her head hurts, probably from using it to knock his. But the pain is comforting in a way, reminding Sansa that she is a survivor, and she will not be taken without a fight. Putting some auburn tresses of the long hair that came undone in the struggle behind her ear, Sansa grabs the rest of her things and tosses them in the bag. No need to fold them up neatly as she usually would; she is not planning on leaving for long.

“Alright, Miss Stark. That’ll do.”

At the abrupt sound of his voice, Sansa stops what she’s been doing, turning around to face the man. He’s keeping his head down; Sansa finds she is afraid to look at him.

“Fuck me, girl, I think you broke my nose,” he says, sounding nasal.

_Good, you bastard. I hope it hurts. I hope you choke on that blood._

From the corner of her eyes, Sansa can see him bending over, picking up the towel she left on the bedroom floor as she changed into her jeans and hoodie.

“You throw some mean punches, girl. I’ll give you that.”

He laughs before he speaks again, holding the towel up to his face. It’s mirthless, sharp and short.

“Do you know who that man was, at your door just now? The short guy with the goatee?”

She answers in a quiet voice.

“I… I believe he is Petyr Baelish. I’m not sure, I didn’t see him. Sir.”

Sandor barks out another short laugh.

“No need to call me that. Not after how I broke down your door. I’m sorry about that, by the way.”

Sansa continues to look away from the large figure, slightly raising her shoulders.

“Okay. I gotta warn you… I’m a bit of a mess. You didn’t help, making me all bloody.”

Sansa doesn’t know what to say to that. Feeling alarmed, she remains quiet for a while, looking at the contents of her bag at the lack of something else to do, and the man continues.

“As I’ve said, my name is Sandor Clegane. I’ve been hired to find you and get you to safety, out of Lannister hands. I work for Bronn Blackwater, whom I believe you know.”

***

_Did he just say Bronn?!_

As soon as the name ‘Bronn Blackwater’ leaves the man’s lips, the tumbling of emotions and thoughts starts again, making Sansa spin on her feet as she turns around to fully face the stranger.

Because she does know Bronn. And there is no reason for this man, this Sandor, to know of Bronn as well. Unless he was indeed hired.

_Right?_

The man is still standing a couple of feet away from her, dabbing at his bloody nose,  and for the first time since their… encounter, Sansa really looks up to see him. Her eyes go from the bloodied towel in his hands, over his chest, arms and up to his face.

Amidst all the action, the hood he had pulled over his face, has come down. He’s still standing sideways from her, but his position has changed after he picked up the towel and Sansa can see more of his face now.

He has dark, prominent eyebrows. His keen, expressive eyes are framed with thick, dark eyelashes. Sansa thinks his eyes are in fact a light color, but it’s hard to tell in the sparse light.

Though most of the lower part of his head is covered in blood, Sansa can immediately see he has no ordinary face.  A large part of his right cheek, jaw and forehead looks uneven, marbled and Sansa realizes they’re probably burn scars, making the man look battered, to say the least. The blood or towel do little to hide them.

As soon as he sees her staring, his face contorts to an expression of anger and he curses again. His loud voice seems to bounce of the walls, scaring Sansa. The tornado of thoughts, feelings and fears comes to a quick climax, as she begins to feel weak in the knees. Her lack of sleep, empty stomach and the constant high strung state she has been in prove to be too much and the light leaves her eyes.

***

Running over, Sandor reaches the girl just before she collapses to the floor.

“Fuck, scared you that much, did I?”, Sandor whispers at the girl as a pang of sadness and regret at his outburst rise in his chest.

_Not the time to dwell, dog._

Dropping the towel and pulling the girl’s bag off her bed, Sandor tucks his left forearm under her knees while he uses his right arm to support her upper back. She’s a tall girl, but not too heavy. As Sandor makes his way through the hallway of the apartment building that appears to be deserted, using his right foot to close what is left of her front door behind them, the girl’s head falls to the nook of his neck and shoulder, resting there for some time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have edited some of the labels, one of them being: multi character-freeform. I am thinking about expanding the 'cast' here! Which characters would you like to see here? Book, TV Show, anything. Tyrion? Jon? Dany? The Red Woman? Let me know your thoughts and I'll try and see what I can do! We aim to please! ^^


	12. 12.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who would have thought? Sandor can be quite a charmer, as we learn in this chapter. Also... Cersei! I hope you enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter yet! I am so very much enjoying this writing game. It's a treat. Please leave a comment if you can spare a minute or two. Thank you so much for reading!

12.

Darkness falls over Casterly Manor, forming a thick veil, hiding most of the objects in her den from sight, as she pours herself another. Cersei looks up at the clock. He’s late. This is very unlike the Petyr Baelish she knows. Taking a large sip from the fine wine she so loves, the sweet red liquid leaves a subtle but lovely tickle on her tongue, down her throat, before it settles in her stomach. She savors it for a little while, until the wine functions as a catalyst, feeding her frustration by the second.

When the Stark bitch took what was not hers, Cersei was quick to decide that Petyr should be the one to help her clean up the mess. He’s a sick, perverted, twisted little man. So full of himself. And though Cersei despises his smugness, the complacent grin his face displays a little too often, the condescending way he uses his hands, gesturing when he goes on and on during one of his many monologues because he loves to hear himself speak so much; Cersei worries. There’s work to be done. And the pressure is on: Tywin will find out about what has happened if the Stark bitch is not dealt with soon. And then there’s the matter of retrieving and securing the information that the little skank has taken.

Petyr was right, assuming Cersei hired him because he’s simply the best man for the job. He was eager to agree, more so than usual, when Cersei asked him to aid her in taking the eldest Stark daughter. Cersei is no idiot. She knows it’s not the fat paycheck with his name on it that’s waiting to be collected. It’s the girl. The girl, as she is the daughter of Catelyn Tully Stark. The one object of Little Finger’s obsession. It should help in getting Petyr on board, Cersei thought at the time. And it certainly did. She takes another sip.

Checking her phone for the third time in mere minutes, Cersei’s worry grows. Time’s up. And no word from the Little Finger. A smile forms on Cersei’s lips at the thought of how much he despises the nickname she gave him, after what was supposed to be a passionate night confirmed what she had always thought: his… parts were indeed in proportion to the rest of his size. The smile leaves as quickly as it appears, when the clock in her den reminds her that it’s midnight. And no Stark bitch. No Petyr. And no way of reaching the little man, as he refuses to pick up his phone. By the time the dial tone ends and Petyr’s voicemail comes on, Cersei’s frustration and worry have made way for a vicious, burning fury.

“Damn you, Petyr. Where the fuck are you? We had a deal. If you don’t get back to me within a fucking minute, I will find another way to get to the girl myself. And make no mistake. I will get to you, too. And you will be very, _very_ sorry when I do. Call me. Now.”

The voicemail offers no smug, complacent retort, but Cersei feels a little better after leaving the message on Petyr’s voicemail. Running large divisions of the Lannister business, Cersei learned early on never to bet on just one horse. And she is resourceful enough. If Little Finger can’t keep his end of the bargain, he’ll be dealt with in time. She has plenty of favors to call in elsewhere.

But first things first. The Stark bitch is top priority. Slouching on her red and golden divan, Cersei puts together a new plan.

“You will be sorry, Peter,” Cersei tells her wine glass as she searches through the contacts on her phone.

“I think it is time to call in the Mountain.”

***

The bottle of whisky is still fresh on his mind, as a throbbing feeling reminds Sandor of the current state of his nose. Fuck, where are icepacks where you need them? A quick look at the clock on his dashboard teaches Sandor it’s a little past midnight. He’s not on a particular schedule, but it’s later than he’d like it to be. And the headache the girl blessed him with, does little in helping Sandor navigating his way to the safe house. The car comes with a built in GPS, but he has never been a man of gadgets. It’s a miracle he knows how to actually use his iPhone to make a god damn phone call. Which reminds him; he’s supposed to call Bronn as soon as they reach the place.

“Fuck, when did my life turn into a damn movie?”, he mumbles, looking at the beautiful redhead next to him in the passenger’s seat. The girl is still passed out, probably from all the stress that he -  and the little man before him - have caused her.

Licking his lip, Sandor concludes that at least the damage there is minor. The bleeding has stopped. From his nose, too. But damn, the girl caught him by surprise.

 _What a fucking night_. Sandor hopes the girl has a little peace of mind as she rests, for the lack of a better word. Looking at her, Sandor decides she looks older than her 22 years. The girl is a youngster still. And the way she is sleeping next to him, all curled up, fragile looking, she reminds him of a scared little bird at first. But there is a rough edge to her. And he’s not just thinking that because she surprised him with some well-aimed blows. No, it’s something else, too. A wisdom, an insight of some sort, that’s unusual for a girl her age. She looks like someone that has seen too much. Sandor can relate to that.

Thinking back to when he was still in his early 20s himself, he can’t help but chuckle. What a difference. At 22 he did live on his own, and he was getting by, but he had no idea about what to do with his life. He tried his hand at being a professional fighter. And though he’s strong and quite fast, it wasn’t his thing. Too much showmanship. And the pay hardly weighed up to the beatings he took from time to time.

So he worked for loan shark for a couple of years, collecting debts from schmucks. His boss was more than happy to hire him; Sandor’s appearance alone was enough to make most of the people that owed his boss money, cough it up on the spot. And that was before the acid incident. But after a while Sandor grew weary of being the one to strike fear in people, even if he never resorted to excessive violence. There had to be more to life than this. He wanted to explore if he could do more. Be more. Create, rather than destroy. Build, instead of breaking things down.

A sound coming from his right puts Sandor right back in the here and now. It looks like the Stark girl is regaining her senses. Keeping his eyes on the road, he can hear the girl shifting in the chair next to him. Her eyes flutter open and close again, very slowly, like she is adjusting to the light even though the car is dark and the highway they’re on is hardly lit. Sandor puts his hand through his hair, finger combing it over to cover the bad side of him, as he makes sure to keep his eyes on the road as he braces himself for a renewed introduction. He’ll let her set the pace this time.

***

Sansa’s mouth feels dry and her back hurts, but she ignores the pain. She thinks she might be dreaming again, but through her closed eyelids, Sansa can observe flashes of light. A rhythmic sound keeps lulling her back to this strange state of sleep. The humming is strangely comforting and Sansa stays in it for a while, not ready to face – much less come to terms – with what is happening.

Like pieces of an intricate puzzle, bits of the events that took place come back to her, one after the other. After a while she can put them together and they form a bigger, terrifying picture, making Sansa remember that she’s been taken from her home. By someone she doesn’t know. Someone tall. Sansa remembers he took up a lot of space.

That’s when she remembers his face. The way it changed so very quickly; how it contorted to anger when she looked at him. She was convinced he was going to hurt her. Sansa wakes to the sensation of her breath halting, and she opens her eyes, gasping for air.

Still foggy, Sansa instinctively knows she is in a car before her eyes have a chance to help her brain interpret her current circumstance. It’s dark. The lights Sansa could make out before, are the street lights on both sides of whatever road they are on. From the corner of her eyes, she can see the same tall man from before, sitting behind the wheel of the car. She can’t see much of his face, just his profile. His nose is slightly hooked. Just as she remembers. There’s a swelling, reminding Sansa of why her own head still hurts. And, narrowing her eyes, Sansa can see those thick, long eyelashes she remembers now. He seems very focused on the road and doesn’t appear to realize that she’s awake.

The memories come back, one after the other. _Sandor. That is what he called himself. He said he works for Bronn._

Remembering this seemingly small, but crucial detail, helps Sansa. She is scared, but the sinking feeling that settled in her stomach just a minute ago, becomes less prominent. She’s in the car next to the man, and though she can’t piece together how she got there yet, she does know she is unharmed. Looking down, Sansa is relieved to see she has all her clothes – and her seat belt - on. She remains silent for some time, until her inquisitive nature, the very one that got her in this mess in the first place, can be silenced no more. Sansa wants answers.

Trying to swallow away the feeling of sand and cotton in her mouth, Sansa asks: “Wh… where are we?”

She struggles to get the words out, but Sansa knows he’s heard her all the same.

“Ah, you’re awake, then,” he says, making no effort to look in her direction.

Sansa swallows again, still afraid to look at the man to her left.

“There’s a bottle of water near your feet. You should probably drink some,” he rasps, not unfriendly.

Bending her head to look down, Sansa instantly feels like someone has tied a very tight rope around her head, near her temples, pulling on it like a bull at a rodeo. Meanwhile, some invisible guy is pounding the back of her head, using a very large hammer. Nausea sets in out of nowhere and Sansa has to work very hard to not throw up the contents of her empty stomach. Her hands fly to her forehead, covering her eyes as well. She keeps them there for a while, trying to block out the limited light coming from outside the car. It feels like bolts of electricity are being crammed down her optic nerves.

“Shit. Sorry, girl. I think you hurt yourself, head butting me like that. I’m a tough fucker,” he says softly.

Slowly, the man lets go of the steering wheel with his right hand. Removing her hand from her eyes, Sansa flinches as she realizes he’s moving his hand in her direction, causing another wave of absolute agony to pulse through her head.

“Don’t worry,” he rasps. Sansa can his voice is laced with a bit of frustration, but she thinks he’s trying not to let it show.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I am going to reach down to hand you that fucking water bottle. You’re dehydrated.”

Sansa nods, _very_ slowly. The pain and the nausea are manageable, as long as she can block out the light. Sandor hands her the bottle, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Here.”

Shaking slightly, she accepts the bottle from him.

That’s when she realizes the predicament she’s in. She’ll need both of her hands if she’s going to be opening the plastic bottle before dinosaurs roam the earth once more. But she’s shaking, and using her hands to cover her eyes already makes Sansa feel like she’s run the New York Marathon. Removing one will probably result in her puking all over the dashboard of the car. And though Sansa’s in absolute misery, _that_ is not going to happen. She sighs before she speaks again.

“Eh… Sandor? I’m sorry. Could you please open that for me? I’m afraid to let go of my head. And I’m quite… nauseous.”

Sansa can hear him shifting in his seat at that admission. He extends his right arm again; his lower arm brushing her upper arm slightly. This time she doesn’t flinch; she just feels grateful for the help. And god, a sip of water sounds like absolute heaven right now.

“Sure,” he says. Biting on the cap and using his right hand to twist the bottle to get the cap off, he hands it back to her. “There you go. Small sips, girl.”

Sansa does as she’s advised. The cold, clear liquid feels like an absolute bliss to her dry mouth.

***

_That went better than he expected. At least there was no screaming involved._

The girl might have a concussion. It would explain her symptoms, the headache, the nausea. Hell, even the fainting.

 _No, dog, that was just you_.

Sandor shakes his head to drive out the thought. Though his nose hurts like hell, Sandor can’t help but feel a little proud of her.

“You should feel better in a while,” he rasps.

“I’m about to make a short phone call to Bronn,” Sandor informs her. “To give him a status update. Let him know we’re on our way. I’ll fill you in on everything, girl. Once we get there. But it might be good to hear a familiar voice, I think.”

The girl nods, indicating she agrees.

_Fuck, why didn’t I think of that before?_

Dialing his boss’s number, Bronn immediately picks up.

“Clegane, what the fuck. You were supposed to call in well over an hour ago. Where the hell are you?”

Sandor chuckles. That’s the Bronn he knows. No ‘who is this’, or ‘Hello, this is Blackwater’, none of that crap. Just right down to the point. Sandor can appreciate that.

“We ran into a… difficulty. You might want to send Varys to check things out. Can’t get into that now. But the girl is here, we’re on our way as we speak. I’ll contact you once we’ve arrived. Shouldn’t be too long now.”

Sandor can hear Bronn releasing his breath at the other end of the line, relieved to hear that things are going as planned. Sort of.

“Varys?! The fuck, Clegane, wh…”

“Not now, Bronn,” Sandor says, interrupting his employer. To his right, he can see the girl flinching again.

_Mind your volume, for fuck’s sake._

Bronn seems to have taken the hint. “Right. Later. Drive safe. And keep that girl safe, you hear me?”

As Bronn breaks the connection, Sandor looks over to his right. To his surprise, the girl has opened her eyes and she is looking right back at him. He wants to avert his eyes, but her eyes capture his and he finds he can’t quite look away now. She continues to look at him, and Sandor begins to feel uncomfortable.

“So you _were_ telling the truth,” the girl whispers, still supporting her head with her hand.

“And I thanked you by hurting you,” she says, frowning, looking at his nose.

“I am so sorry.”

Not sure what to do or say at that, Sandor blurts out: “Ah, think nothing of it. I’m used to taking a punch or two, girl.” He finds that focusing on the road helps him in keeping his eyes away from hers, so he does just that.

“I…  have a lot of questions. But. Sandor. I’m sorry,” the girl insists.

“And please, call me Sansa?”

Sandor slightly turns his head towards her again, finding she’s looking at him, not so much his scars. But him.

“That’s quite alright. I am sorry for scaring you the way I did. My only intention is to keep you safe. Sansa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you to my muse. You know who you are. Valor will find his way when the time is right. Just wait and see. You are loved! <3


	13. 13.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I could not wait ANY longer. I had the day off today and whaddaya know, the Muse came knocking on my door! Find out a little more about Sansa's family in this chapter, as our favorite OTP makes their way to a cabin in the woods. *insert romantic music*
> 
> Once again, a huge thank you to Leigh for being my beta. <3

The full moon reminds Sansa of that time, just a couple of weeks ago, when she went to her one place of peace besides her own home; the little green park at the center of the town. Much like tonight, the moon was round and full. She loved sitting there, hearing the grass rustle, watching Fitz and Liz. The swans and her part time job at the doggy salon were the two things that helped take her mind off of things. How quickly things had changed.

Sansa finds it hard to completely keep up with the speed of things unfolding. She’s still on edge, and feeling like she might throw up if the man to her left, _Sandor Clegane_ , decides to step on the gas a bit too quickly, or make a sudden turn.

Hearing the voice of Bronn has made a huge difference. Sansa heard home. She remembers Bronn well. He was her dad’s old partner at the police station, before her father decided to give up his badge. He’d been grazed by a bullet while on duty when Sansa was 12. And though he wasn’t very badly injured, it had been enough for her mom, Catelyn. She begged Ned to stop. He’d gotten lucky this time. Next time might mean their children would be without a dad.

Sansa hadn’t seen her parents argue much, when she was growing up. Sure, they might have disagreed on a couple of things. But it was a loving marriage, based on equality. The day Catelyn asked Ned to stop being a cop, was the first and only time they had a fall out. Ned loved his family, but he also loved his job. He’d chosen to be a policeman with good reason: to try and make a little bit of difference. To help. For justice. It was such a part of who he was, besides a husband, father and friend. He could not imagine who he was without that aspect of his life.

Catelyn and Ned decided to take a breather when little Bran ran into the living room, crying, begging his mom and dad to stop fighting with each other. Sansa remembers how they sat together for breakfast the next morning. Her little brothers and her younger sister Arya were being their normal selves, fighting over who got to the jar of peanut butter first. But Sansa, Robb and her foster brother Jon sat in silence, expectantly looking their father.

That’s when Ned announced he’d always wanted to be an architect, before he decided to join the police force instead. “So dad is going to stop being a policeman, and he’s going to be making houses instead!” Catelyn had said. Sansa can still remember the subtle tone of relief in her mother’s voice.

“That is so lame!” Arya had yelled. “Who else is going to put away the crooks and the bad guys now, dad?! Can’t someone else make those houses?”

Her dad had looked a little bit sad at that, but he pulled himself together. “Well, Arya, there are still many strong and good men and women on the police force,” Ned had said. “They will all keep working very hard to put the bad guys away. And Bronn is still going to be a cop, and he is the best cop there ever was.”

Arya stuck out her tongue at that.

Feeling bad for her husband, Catelyn pitched in. “Arya, honey, there are a lot of people out there who don’t have a nice place to call home. Don’t you think it’s great daddy is going to help them?”

Arya was already over the subject, so she shrugged and asked for the peanut butter to be handed over, at which Bran gave his best impression of a weather alarm, not willing to part with his peanut butter treasure.    

And so it came to be that Eddard Stark, former policeman, became an architect. He’d already taken a few courses back in college. In the next two years, Catelyn took on a full time job at a hair salon, while Ned stayed home with the kids and dedicated whatever time he could to his studies. Business went very well after he’d gotten his degree, and Catelyn continued working at the salon part time.

Bronn, who dedicated pretty much his entire life to his work and never started a family of his own, continued to be a great family friend. Ned didn’t really stay in touch with his side of the family and Catelyn’s siblings all lived far away, but Bronn made the best substitute uncle they could’ve ever wished for. It helped that he often brought gifts for Sansa, Arya and her brothers.

As Sansa got older she still liked talking to Bronn and she loved whenever he stayed for dinner, but once she became an teen and grew up, they saw less and less of one another. But Bronn always had a special place in her heart.

***

The dark stretches out before them, as Sandor guides the black vehicle over a narrow dirt path leading up to the house. They should arrive there in about 20 minutes. He’s never been there before, but Bronn told him about it. From what he heard it’s not much, but at least they’ll be out of reach from Lannister claws for a while.

Sandor’s never been a people person. Too complicated. People with their expectations, their lies and deceit and crap. He’s always kept his circle as small as possible. If you don’t give people your trust, they can’t betray it. Keep your heart to yourself, and it can never be broken, simple as that.

But he’s in a situation now where it looks like he’ll be dealing with people, or a person, for some time to come at least. There’s really no telling how long they’ll have to spend there.

He looks over to the girl on his right. She’s trying her best to stay as still as possible, as the SUV makes its way over the uneven path. She’s pulled up her knees and covered her eyes again and she’s crying softly. Sandor doesn’t know if she’s crying because she feels guilty for breaking his nose, because of all the tension, because she’s tired, or in pain or discomfort?

 _She is crying because all of it,_ he decides, as he shakes his head to get his long hair out of his face. No use covering himself, now. She’s seen him. And besides; she’s somewhere else entirely.

The girl took a few sips of her water, and they shared a few words between them. She thanked him for helping her. And she seemed to relax more after hearing a familiar voice. But he could tell her walls went up again, almost immediately after she said “Thank you.” He recognizes the signals: she made herself small, covered her eyes. She withdrew.

 _It’s to be expected,_ Sandor thinks to himself. It’s been quite a night, so far.

So he keeps his eyes on the road. Most important thing right now is to get to the safe house, where he’ll contact Bronn again. And to see what he can do about his fucking nose, once they’re there. It feels like it’s about to fall off any second. Sandor hopes against his better judgment the place will at least have a fridge, something cool, to put to his nose and help the swelling go down. He’s got a high tolerance for pain, but fuck, she got him good. Sandor’s happy she didn’t have the opportunity to put a knee against his crotch.

Feeling frustrated with himself for not knowing what to do or say at the very moment, Sandor curses inside himself. They’re on their way to some form of safety, but this is just the start of things to come.  When the Lannisters find out their man, this _Petyr Baelish,_ is dead, it won’t take them long to put two and two together. Sandor can only hope that Bronn’s other men will find a way of dealing with the Lannisters before long.

As they arrive at the little wooden cabin, Sandor takes a deep breath, readying himself. He pulls up to the back of the cabin and stops the SUV there, killing the engine. The girl is sleeping and he hates having to wake her up; she looks so peaceful, where ever she is now.

***

In dreams, Sansa is back home with her family. They are at the dinner table, having breakfast together. Gods, she’s longed to hear the laughter of her siblings, the smell of her mom’s kitchen and the sight of that large table, all made for them to eat at, together. Sansa looks around. Her little brothers, firecrackers as they are, fidget over who gets to have the peanut butter first. Her mother smiles, and puts a lock of red hear, the same color as her own, behind her ear. Ned, her father, looks lovingly at his family. She’s home again.

The slight pressure of a large hand on her shoulder, gently squeezing her, pulls Sansa out of her dream. She’s wide awake immediately, instantly registering that she is in the car, with the large man, Sandor.

That’s right, they were on their way to a location, unfamiliar to her. She heard Bronn just a little while ago. As Sansa blinks her eyes, she sees the man has already left the car and is walking around the vehicle. Maybe to scan the environment?

 _Do not look at his face,_ Sansa tells herself, firmly. _You’ll flinch, or look away, or stare, and that is impolite, and he’s a good guy._ She remembers clearly how angry he had seemed to get when she stared him in the face at her home, earlier that night. And frankly, Sansa just wants to sleep. Or to have something to eat. Or to have the many questions she has, answered. Or… Just to breathe, and not feel this panic and anxiety anymore. She figures talking to the man, Sandor, might be the best thing to do.

Next thing she knows, he’s holding the door on the passenger’s side open so she can leave the car.  She tries to smile. “So we’re here?” she asks him. He avoids eye contact, and nods. Feeling stiff from sitting in an unnatural position for some time, Sansa struggles to get out of the car a bit.

As she’s about to fall over, the man puts his arm around her upper back, indicating it’s okay to lean on him until she feels steady on her feet again. As he is slightly bent, holding her up, Sansa can feel a tress of his hair touch her cheek. She feels a little warmer. She’s not had any close contact with another human being for so long, she literally forgot what it feels like to be allowed to lean on someone.

Sansa can’t help but think he’s keeping his bad side away from her on purpose. She feels bad for staring before, and decides that as soon as she gets to her feet, she’ll not look away, but she’ll look him straight in his eyes.

His eyes. The only time she had somewhat of a good look at them, was back in the car, where it was dark. Sansa thinks she can remember that unlike his slightly tanned skin tone and dark hair, his eyes are a light color. For some reason, this intrigues her. So she decides that this will be her tactic: to not look at his scars by accident, or stare; she will look at his eyes. She wants, needs to know what color they are.

She takes a deep breath. The clear, cold air filling her lungs makes her feel better. “Thanks, Mr. Clegane. I’m okay now. Should I grab my bag?”

He shakes his head at that. “You sure? I don’t want you passing out on me again.”

“I’m sure. And I’m sorry about… that. I’m alright.”

He holds on to her a little longer, and Sansa finds that instead of being scared, it reassures her; comforts her.

“Okay. Don’t be alarmed, there’s an old dog inside that cabin to help keep watch. He’s a former police dog. He’s big and he may bark, but Valor’s a big baby. He won’t hurt you. No one will hurt you as long as Valor is around.”

Sansa nods, and her heart jumps at the prospect of being in the company of a dog. She has always loved animals, and working at the doggy salon has sparked her love for dogs. A lot.

As he lets go of her, carefully, Sandor gestures she walk up to the house. She takes a few steps in the direction of the wood cabin. It’s small, but Sansa can’t help but love it already. It has no windows that she can see, and there is very little light. But something about the rough structures of the wooden panels on the outside of the building, and the tiny porch she can see, make her feel like she’s visiting the set of an old western movie.

Sandor is right behind her. He has a couple of bags swung over his shoulders, hers included. In a few large steps, he reaches the front door. The wooden porch creaks a little under his feet. Sandor has already taken the key out of his wallet. As he opens the door, Valor, the dog, is there to greet him. It’s a big dog indeed, but he’s happy as a pup to see the big man.

Sandor tells the dog to sit and wait, as he unceremoniously drops the bags on the floor, right where he stands. He quickly turns around to hold the door for her as well.

 _Maybe he’s a bit of a brute and a gentleman too, all in one,_ Sansa thinks as she steps inside. The dog looks at her and wags his tail as soon as she starts talking to him. “Hello, Valor.”

He looks up at her, and up at Sandor again, who’s gesturing the dog to stay down. Valor continues wagging is tail as he obeys his orders.

Sansa can hear Sandor taking another deep breath, before he turns around to face Sansa. The cabin is still dark.

“Will you be okay for second? I need to make a quick phone call.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Can I turn a light on, though? I can’t see a thing…”

He doesn’t say anything, as he walks over to the far left corner to flip on a single light, still looking away.

“The place has been inspected, every single nook and cranny. It might not be much, but you’ll be safe here, Sansa,” he says as he slowly makes his way over to where she is standing.

She looks up at him, and just as she had decided to do, stares him straight in the eyes. She was right. They are a light color. They’re magnificent, in fact. Very light blue, with a tinge of grey. He blinks, but holds her gaze for a few seconds.

The moment is gone when Sandor speaks again.

“I left the phone in the car. I’ll be right back.”

And with those words, he breaks the eye contact, turns around and walks out the door, leaving Sansa in the cabin, alone with her thoughts and a German shepherd dog she has come to know as Valor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a little surprise at the end of this chapter, that I didn't know was going to happen. I guess sometimes the pen gets a mind of its own and does what it wants! For any of you who read Kindness of Strangers, I'm sure you know what surprise I speak of. With, of course, the permission of Leigh. 
> 
> Please take a moment to share your feedback, as it is hugely appreciated! Thank you!!


	14. 14.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my. They're here. And... is there really only ONE bed? Happy reading ^^

14.

As Valor keeps his eyes on the door, Sansa takes a good look around what will be her home for… a couple of days? A week? As someone who likes to be informed and in control, it frustrates Sansa that she doesn’t know how long she’ll have to stay here, or to what degree she gets to have a say in that.

Quickly tucking those thoughts away, because at least she is safe, and the company of the ex-police dog Valor was a great surprise, Sansa decides to get an idea of her new surroundings. The cabin is cold and quite small, with little furniture in it. But it’s functional, and the place looks clean.

Her head still throbbing, curiosity wins from the headache. Right in front of her is a kitchen. There’s a window there she didn’t notice before. The thick curtains, yellowed with age and probably cooking, keep the view from sight. Sansa has to resist the urge to open them up to see what view the large window has to offer. But it’s still dark out, so she’ll not see a thing anyway.

The kitchen has a small counter, a stove, a tiny oven, some kitchen cabinets that have definitely seen better days and untreated, wooden shelves that hold all kinds of pots and pans. Most of them look worse for wear, but at least there is some cooking gear here. Against the left wall of the kitchen is a beat up fridge, one that looks like it’s straight from a 50’s diner.

A door on Sansa’s left leads to a small bathroom with a simple but functional shower, a sink, a bit of storage space and a toilet. The second door to her seems to lead to the bedroom. The… _only_ bedroom? Sansa’s heart starts beating faster at that thought, and she has no idea why. There’s a couch in the living room. And Sandor has shown he is somewhat of a gentleman, already. Why does the thought of sharing a… bed, give her butterflies in her stomach? Surely she’s just hungry. It must be the circumstances. _It’s messed with my head._

In the bedroom, Sansa sees a small, single bed. _He would never fit on that,_ Sansa thinks. The bed is made, and at the end some blankets have been folded up. The room has no windows, but it’s spacious enough to not seem claustrophobic. A small desk stands to the left wall and on the far end of the room, Sansa notices a wardrobe. Unpacking and hanging up the little stuff she brought with her, might be a nice distraction from the butterflies that keep invading her tummy. And her head. And food… _I need to eat._

Just as Sansa decides to walk back to the living room, she notices the set of stairs, leading to the first floor of the cabin. A quick glance upstairs reveals little as it’s still dark as night, but Sansa can make out an open looking space, maybe storage. Or another bedroom? Feeling silly for being nervous at seeing only one bedroom before and jumping to the conclusions so easily, Sansa forgets about her initial plans to unpack and heads back to the kitchen.

Her stomach is protesting loudly; Valor looks up at hearing the growling sounds coming from her belly. After having to throw nearly her entire weight in, the door of the old refrigerator gives way. To her absolute surprise and delight, there’s food in it. A couple of eggs, bacon, yoghurt, milk, chicken, a variety of vegetables, cheese and steak. Food _never_ looked so good, even if nausea keeps telling her not to bother. Her poor stomach is about to jump right out and cook some dinner on itself, as Sansa decides to keep it light and settle for some lemon flavored yogurt, her favorite. She can’t help but think that Bronn, dear Bronn, had a say in supplying the fridge. Lemon flavored yogurt has been her thing since she was a little girl, and he’s seen her munching away on it more times than she can remember.

The fridge has a small freezer compartment in it, reminding Sansa that the man, Sandor, could probably use an icepack to put on his nose. A dense, heavy brick of regret sits right next to the feeling of hunger and longing in her belly, as she thinks back to when she brought the back of her head up to his. She remembers clearly, she could hear something break. And it was a hard hit. Her head still hurts from the impact.

Swallowing past a catch in her throat, Sansa takes out the cup of yogurt and searches through the drawers under the counter. There are a couple of clean looking utensils, a big knife, some rubber bands, a roll of duct tape, and… a strip of painkillers. “We will be _feasting_ on _those_ , believe me,” she says to no one in particular. Sandor will probably want to have some of them as well. Valor keeps his eyes on the door, but his ears turn in Sansa’s direction.

After she’s had a quick couple of bites from the yogurt, savoring the pure sensation of having something to fill her stomach, Sansa notices a couple of old looking towels on the right side of the counter. They’ve been folded up neatly, and one hangs from the wall. She chooses a towel with a cute flower pattern on it, reopens the freezer compartment and takes out a pack of frozen green beans. They should make a pretty decent ice pack, Sansa thinks to herself, wrapping the towel around the pack. Her heart jumps a little at the thought of holding the icepack to his face. It seems like the least she can do to make up for breaking his poor nose. A faint smile appears on her face at the thought of that tough, big man holding the cheesy looking towel to his face. _The hell, Sansa, what is wrong with you? Is this like some lame hero complex, feeling attracted to the man because he came to save the day?_

Sansa chews on that thought for a moment. Attraction might not be the right word to describe the effect he has on her. But the man _has_ sparked her interest, stirred up something inside of her that feels almost overwhelming and very inappropriate at the same time. Maybe it’s because of the fact that they met in rather unusual circumstances. And Sansa has to admit that he makes her feel safe, assured. Sansa realizes _something_ happened when she looked him in the eyes, right before he left to get his phone from the car. They seem such a contrast to the rest of him; dark, broody, moody and.. _Very big. They say the eyes are the mirror to the soul._ _There is more to him than the first impression he makes,_ Sansa decides. Then she shakes her head, immediately regretting that decision because the headache is still very much present.

In the meantime, Valor divides his attention between watching the door and Sansa. All of a sudden, the dog tenses up. He gets up, body low, but his tail is no longer wagging. His hairs are standing up, his neck is stretched, his head is low and focused on a smell or sound Sansa hasn’t noticed, and Sansa can see him showing his teeth. Valor makes no sound, but Sansa can see the white of his eyes. She has learned enough about dogs and their body language to understand what this means: something caught his attention and he’s ready to attack or defend if need be.

***

_What the hell was that, just now?_

Sandor doesn’t know what’s going on. That girl… she’s fucking confusing, that’s what’s going on. Sandor doesn’t know how to act. He always fucking knows how to act. Things are black and white, plain and simple. He either puts up a front to keep people away, not giving a shit about how they respond to the ruin of his face. Or he’s himself when he’s alone or around the few people he’s learned to trust. The ones that look beyond.

What the fuck is it with this girl?! One minute she breaks his nose. Then she sees him and faints, the next she looks him straight in the eye, not even a glance at his burns, and not a flinch. Not even when he turned on the light, swallowing to keep his nerves, fucking nerves in check before turning around and facing her. She looked him straight in the face, and nothing. No disgust, no pity, no fear. She just stood there _looked_ at him.

Sandor doesn’t know if he’s angry, surprised, no astonished, or just… scared as _hell_ for not knowing how he feels and how he should respond. This is new. _Fucking perfect, it’s not like things were that complicated before._ Realizing he’s going to need some time to let things sink in, Sandor scratches his head and takes out his phone out of the car to call Bronn. He’ll deal with _himself_ later.

“Blackwater, here.”

“Bronn, it’s me. We’re here.”

Bronn hardly lets Sandor finish his one, short sentence.

“Clegane. The _fuck_. Varys? What happened?!”

Sandor takes a short breath before speaking again. It’s takes quite a bit of his self-restraint not to blow up. And after the night they’ve had, not to mention the events that took place just minutes ago, there’s not much left to go on.

Bronn has made a mistake, and he knows it. He was responsible for the girl’s safety until Sandor could get to her. He had guys on watch. Someone fucked up and it nearly cost them… _her_.

“I thought you had eyes everywhere, man,” Sandor rasps. “There was a guy at the girl’s place. If I had arrived a minute later, we’d be in trouble. Fuck. I had to take him out. Get Varys to take care of the body. Tell him to look down the nearest garbage shaft. According to S… Miss Stark, the guy’s Petyr Baelish. I can’t tell you much else, Bronn. _Just get it taken care_ _of_.”

Bronn curses before he continues to speak.

“Believe me, I _will_ found out who fucked up. Petyr Baelish? That man’s a fucking dirt bag. Got ties with the Lannister family, fucking piece of shit. I don’t know how the fuck he got through. But I will.”

Sandor struggles to keep his patience and exhales sharply.

“I’ll send Varys immediately. Are you guys ok? How’s the girl?”

The burned corner of Sandor’s mouth curls up at that question.

“The girl is in better shape than I am, man. Fuck. She broke my god damn nose, can you believe that?”

Bronn barks out a laugh on the other end of the line so loudly, Sandor swears his eardrum is about to rupture.

“She did, eh? She’s a feisty girl, takes after her old man. Right, you two stay put at the cabin. I’ve got eyes on Cersei fucking Lannister. We’ll find out what she’s up to now that her henchman’s taken care of. Eat something and try and get some sleep. I need you in your best shape, you got that?”

Sandor cracks a mirthless smile.

“Got it,” he assures his boss.

“Alright. I’ll be in touch as soon as the guys find out what the Lannister bitch plans next. She’s a crazy fucker, Clegane. Brace yourself. In the meantime, lay low and keep Sansa safe. There’s enough groceries at the cabin to last you guys a couple of days.”

Sandor feels just how hungry and tired he is at the mention of food.

“We’re on it,” Bronn continues.

“Give Sansa my best, will you?”

“Yeah.”

Sandor breaks the connection, puts his phone in his back pocket, locks the car and walks back to the cabin, thinking about what the _hell_ to do once he’s back inside again. With the dog. And Sansa Stark.

***

Alarmed by the sudden change in the dog’s demeanor, Sansa takes a couple of steps back, until her lower back reaches the counter of the kitchen. Clutching the icepack contraption in her left hand, her right hand searches for the drawer. The knife, she saw it seconds before. If she can get to it now, maybe-

The door opens in one huge swing, as Sansa lets out a high pitched shriek. The dog jumps up, starts wagging its tail again and Valor happily dances around the legs of Sandor Clegane. _Oh._

Feeling utterly silly, Sansa speaks before she can stop herself.

“Sandor! You almost gave me a heart attack!” she exclaims.

Taking his eyes off the dog and looking at her, Sansa can see how is face is starting to contort again. This is not going according to plan at all.

“N… not like _that._ It’s just… Well, Valor tensed up and it alarmed me. I couldn’t really see through the door to know it was you, not some bad guy.”

Sansa feels the warmth spreading to her cheeks at her own words. _Not some bad guy? Really?_

The look on Sandor’s face continues to grow darker. _Oh gosh. Me and my words._ Not knowing what to do next, Sansa holds up the improvised icepack. “Look!” she says loudly, and sounding way more chipper than she means to. I made you an icepack! Maybe we can fix your nose, so the swelling won’t be so bad… I found some painkillers too..?”

At the sight of Sansa, holding a knife in her one hand, a ridiculous looking ‘icepack’ in the other, the man bursts in laughter, pointing at the thing in her hand and holding his stomach with his other hand.

Feeling surprised, Sansa feels the muscles in her stomach starting to contract and before she even knows what is happening, she can’t help but laugh with him. At the absurdity of the situation, at giving way to all the pent up anxiety and fear she has felt, at _everything._ She's in danger, and trapped in a house in a place she doesn't know, with a huge, strange man to keep her safe, and a former police dog that reminds her of a puppy more than anything else. Sansa has not laughed this hard in _months._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed. I'll try and post another update not too long from now. Thanks for reading my first ever attempt at a decent SanSan fic, and thanks for all your kind words so far! <3
> 
> As always, feedback and comments are most welcome.


	15. 15.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bronn calls Ned and Cat to tell them the good news.   
> How will Sansa and Sandor get on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Leigh. Thank you for being such a wonderful friend, and thank you for your sharp mind and awSUM beta-skills. <3

Laughing does little to help the headache, split lip and the fucking, _throbbing_ pain radiating from his nose fracture, but it can’t be helped. Seeing the girl switch from looking scared, horrified, to blushing, all while holding up a knife and an _icepack_ at the same time, shoots Sandor in a laughing fit he’s not had for as long as he can remember.

Booming sounds of laughter bellow off the walls of the wooden cabin as he struggles to stop, clutching his stomach in an attempt to ease the pain he feels there, too. But it’s of no use, so Sandor gives in to the moment, slaps his thighs, bends over and feels his freshly healed lip splitting again from being stretched to a smile that he can’t seem to hold in.  

After a couple of minutes, the booming sounds reduce to laughs, snorts and chuckles and Sandor feels like he can breathe. Though his nose is bleeding again and his head feels like it’s about to push his brains out through his very eye sockets, he feels there’s a little room now, too, where a big question mark and a worry sat before.

Taking a moment to regain better control of his breath, Sandor sees the girl didn’t miss the absolute absurdity of the situation herself. Sansa has tears streaming down her face. She’s dropped the knife she was holding and though she told him the icepack was meant for him, the girl uses it to cool her own, positively pink cheeks in a desperate attempt to calm down a little.

 _She’s been more resilient than I gave her credit for,_ Sandor thinks, looking at her as she continues to laugh. _She kept out of Lannister clutches and survived, all on her own. And she’s accepted that things are different now. She’s accepted my help._ Silently admiring the girl’s strength, Sandor‘s headache reminds him of the way she’d tried to fight him off, earlier.

“An icepack, huh?” he says, arching the eyebrow on the good side of his face and eying the girl intently. “That’s kind. You didn’t notice that medicine cabinet right on your left, I take it?” Sandor says, making his way over to the kitchen to point at the thing.

Where he expected the girl to be affected by his sudden change in demeanor, quite the opposite happens. “M-medicine cabinet?” the girl struggles to get her words out, snickering and holding up the improvised, flower patterned towel icepack. “You mean to say… I di-didn’t have to make… t-this?” And before he knows it, the girl starts laughing again. Holding his hand to his head, because _damn,_ it hurts, Sandor can’t help but smirk along with the girl.

***

Putting down the phone, Eddard feels a catch in his throat.

His head was in the clouds, just moments ago. This news has pulled him out of a numb state, and he needs a couple of seconds to let the message Bronn just gave him, sink in. Months of waiting, looking, trying, living between hope and an all-encompassing fear so great, he swears he was about to budge under the strain of it, have come to a halt. Ned feels like he’s in a car that was going 200 miles an hour, destination unknown, and it’s still speeding, but someone other than himself stepped on the brakes very hard. Where he had expected it to make a full U-turn, the car has stopped shaking instead, and is now steady, has many more miles to go, but is reaching to an endpoint. A _good_ one.

“Cat?” Looking at his wife, Ned’s heart hurts. He wants to do everything he can to lighten her burden and soften the lines of worry showing on his wife’s face, but there’s only so much he has actual influence on. Ever since Sansa went missing, Cat has grown a little smaller with each day that passed, and no word from Sansa. Cat’s still there, and he knows she has been trying very hard to keep her hopes up and be there for Arya, Bran, Rick. Robb and Jon, too, even though they are grown, living their own lives. But she’s a shadow of the spirited, lively woman he fell in love with almost 25 years ago.

“Honey?”

Cat looks up at him. Something about the tone of his voice seems to have alarmed her. She’s narrowing her eyes at him.  

“They found her,” Ned continues. She’s shaken and still a bit scared, but she’s okay. Bronn says he put his best man in charge of Sansa’s safety. He’s with Sansa right now.”

For the first time since they realized Sansa was gone, Ned sees a bit of color return to his love’s cheeks.

With a voice coarse with emotion, she says: “They found our girl? She’s okay?”

“They found her. Just in time.”

Explaining to his wife that Bronn just called and there isn’t much else they know about where Sansa is at the moment or when they will possibly have the chance to talk to her or see her again, he slowly sees his wife returning to him. Because it wasn’t only Sansa, that was lost. A bit of every member of his family went missing the day she left.

“We… we have to tell the kids, Ned,” says Cat. She’s trying to get out of her chair, but all of a sudden the relief and the emotions are so great, she bursts into tears; tears of a mother believing she’d never see her daughter again.

Ned supports his wife in her attempt to get up and holds her, just holds her, as silent tears stream down his face as well. “Hush, now. It’s going to be okay. She’s been found, Cat. And she is safe. Bronn gave me his word. Shhh. It’s going to be alright. We’ll tell the children in a little bit.”

***

The rain softly drips on the rooftop of the wooden cabin, as Sansa pulls the blanket she is under, up to her chin. The couch is not as comfy as her couch at home, but it doesn’t matter. She just spoke with Bronn, who called to tell her he’d informed her family of her safety. Sansa cried at the mention of her parents. And usually she feels silly after a bout, but after tonight, Sansa decides that there is nothing to be ashamed of. She is done, putting up a happy front. No more of that. If she feels sad, she’s going to feel sad and not feel bad about it anymore. Besides, she could not hide her emotions when speaking with Bronn, even if she tried. She has missed her family so, so much.

Bronn wasn’t able to tell Sansa when she’d see her family again. And though it made her feel grateful, talking to Bronn, it also ignited a strong sense of reality; the danger is still present. She may have dodged Petyr, but the Lannisters are still looking to get their hands on her. When she revealed that she’d in fact taken the papers she stole from the Lannisters with her to the cabin, she could swear she heard Sandor Clegane swearing from the bathroom, where he was trying to tend to his wounds. A courier will come by to pick up the paperwork, Bronn had told her.

Looking over her shoulder in an attempt to see if the cussing she heard was because of her telling about the papers or because Sandor has somehow managed to hurt himself trying to keep the icepack to his face, Sansa realizes a certain understanding and truce has been established between them.

She’s long over the initial shock of seeing him, and still feels a little bad at how she stared at him when he broke down her front door earlier that night. The scarring on his face caught her attention, if she’s honest. It’s there, and they’re prominent. But it was the anger that came over him, as soon as he realized she was looking at him, that gave her the biggest scare. Yet, if it weren’t for him, god knows what would have happened. And even though it’s only been a few hours that she’s been in his company, he’s made her feel safer than she’s felt in months. Something about him makes her feel a little bolder than the old Sansa; she wants to get to know him better. So far he’s been nothing but brave and protective of her, even though he knows damn well she got herself into this fine mess in the first place.

And then there’s the nose breaking business. She hurt him pretty bad, but to his credit, he’s not given her any grief about it. In fact; Sansa thinks that maybe, just maybe, it helped her in winning his respect a little bit. Gathering her courage, Sansa decides to get up off the couch and offer Sandor her help. After all, it seems the least she can do after the damage she caused. Though maybe, _maybe_ he had it coming; she _really_ liked her old front door.

Putting her hair in a messy bun to get it out of the way and taking the strip of painkillers and a glass of water with her, she stops dead in her tracks before she fully reaches the bathroom. There’s a strong smell of whiskey, and Sansa remembers the smell vividly from whenever Bronn brought over a bottle to her place to drink a few with her dad. Before her stands Sandor Clegane. Shirtless. Next to him is an opened, old looking bottle of the alcoholic beverage, a small glass and some paper towels. As he looks up from what he’s been doing, he stares at her in the reflection of the mirror before him. It appears he was trying to disinfect his lip with the whiskey, while having a few drinks by himself. He makes no attempt to move or say anything.

“Oh, wow! You… you’re big!” Sansa blurts out, wide eyed and dumbfounded by the sight before her. His upper back is all muscle and power, and his shoulders are even broader than they looked when he was fully clothed. His long hair keeps a part of his back from her view, but Sansa can see scarring there. His arms, back and a part of his side are covered in tattoos, but Sansa looks away before she can have a good peek at them to tell what they represent. Slamming her own hand to her mouth before she can embarrass herself any further, she drops her head and holds up the glass of water and the painkillers as a means of explanation.

“I eh. Thought you might need these,” she says, still holding up her poor excuses for help. “Are you okay? Your _nose_ , I mean? I… I’m so sorry.”

That’s when the man puts down the paper towel, takes a large sip of whiskey out of the glass next to him, and turns around. Sansa keeps looking away, feeling like she interrupted him in a private moment. From the corner of her eye she can see that some of the front of his torso is covered in ink as well. He remains silent for a few seconds, but they feel like minutes to her.

“Sansa?

“Hmm?” she says, still eying the bottle of whiskey.

“Sansa. Look at me,” he rasps. “ _Look_ at me.”

She inhales, straightens her back and brings up her head to look at him. Her eyes find his like this is what she has been doing forever. Like she has never done anything else.

“Good girl. You see these?” he says, pointing at his scars.

 _What the heck is he getting at with this? Is he trying to test me?_ Sansa finds her resolve at that thought. Fine. If he wants to test me, he can go right ahead. I’m not backing out. I’m not that Sansa anymore. Not after everything.

Sounding more sure of herself than she’s really feeling, Sansa sets her jaw.

“Sure I do. What about them, Sandor?”

She could swear he’s a bit taken aback at her response, but if he is, he’s not showing it much.

“My brother gave me these, six years ago. He threw a cup of acid in my face, while his buddies held me down. Five men kept me pinned to a wall as he threw it. He stood right in front of me. Told his _friends_ they’d be next, if they tried to help me in any way. I felt my face literally melt off as soon as the acid touched my skin. They held on to me for almost 15 minutes before the first one started to puke. Couldn’t take it anymore. That’s when the cops came, and he ran away.”

Sansa’s heart sinks, right where she stands. She swallows, holding his gaze, as tears form in the corners of her eyes.

“I was in the hospital for two months. And I’ve had six surgeries, since. I’m still standing. What I’m trying to say, _little bird_ ; I can handle a broken nose. Don’t you worry your pretty little head over me.”

Before she knows what she’s doing, Sansa empties the glass of water she brought, grabs the whiskey bottle without asking, pours in quite a bit of the liquid, and takes a few large gulps, before filling up Sandor’s glass as well. Using the back of her hand to wipe her tears away, she takes another sip, a smaller one this time and she closes the distance between herself and the large man in front of her.

Bringing her hand up to his cheek, he is the one to flinch this time, as he jerks his head back before her hand can fully touch him. “It’s okay,” she assures him. “It’s okay.”

She brushes her fingertips against his face, surprised that the marbled flesh feels a lot softer than she imagined. Sansa can see the little muscles and tendons in his neck showing beneath the surface of his skin there, but she perseveres. “I see more than just these. Because there’s more to you. You’re a good man, Sandor. And a _survivor.”_

They stand like that in silence for some time, until Sandor takes her hand in his own and brings it down from his face, gently giving it a squeeze before letting go. Sansa feels the blush has all but left her cheeks.

The sounds of pines whispering in the brisk night breeze fill the tiny bathroom they’re in, adding to a feeling of calm, serenity and understanding between them.

“Let’s see what we can do about these cuts,” Sansa says, feeling almost bad about breaking the silence between them.

The big man before her swallows noticeably, making Sansa realize he’s probably not used to being in such close proximity of someone. And they’ve only known each other for a couple of hours, but it seems he trusts her enough to allow her help and care. Sansa isn’t sure why, but it makes her feel good about herself.

“Best leave that whiskey be, if you’re serious about helping me tend to my wounds, little bird,” he says, softly.

Sansa puts down the glass she’s been holding, taking one of the paper towels. Sandor keeps perfectly still, as she carefully wipes away the dried up blood under his nose, but never takes his eyes off of her face. And this time, as she gently dabs his bleeding lip, he doesn’t flinch or pull away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading In dreams! Every kudos, comment, bit of feedback and 'hit' make me want to work even harder at being the best writer I can be. Leave me some feedback if you can spare a minute! <3
> 
> PS: next chapter will see the introduction of a new character :)


	16. 16.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's here? :) NEW CHARACTER ALERT!

16.

After unpacking his things and dragging one of the ragged matrasses from the storage in the attic to put in the living room of the cabin, Sandor much longs for _quiet_. And rest. He’s exhausted, his head hurts, and he can’t see straight.

The cabin itself is nice. Simple, but sufficient. And the surroundings are much to his liking; dark, remote, quiet. There’s just the soft sound of the trees swaying in the breeze outside.

But the peace is soon over and done with. After the moment in the bathroom, where the girl daringly had a couple of sips from his whiskey before cleaning him up as best she could, she becomes a right chatterbox, words piercing through the quiet and calm atmosphere he so longs for.

Fueled by the tiny bit of alcohol she’s had – _his_ whiskey – she’s proven herself a real light weight. Her mouth keeps moving, and the sounds coming from her lips knows no end. Sandor is tired, injured, and _very_ frustrated with himself for dropping his guard at her slightest of touches, moments ago. He’s not survived this long because of being a fucking pussy. And he has a _job_ to do.

As an icing on the cake that is his broodiness, there’s the text he received from Bronn. On the contrary to what his boss had decided, Bronn _is_ coming over tomorrow, saying he needs to see the girl with his own two eyes. It makes Sandor feel _inadequate_ , like his word alone isn’t enough, his work needs to be checked. And he’s bringing that woman, Margaery Tyrell, the CIA agent, to collect the fucking paperwork. Just what he fucking needs, that. More company. More chirping.

The paperwork, the stupid pages the girl tore out of a goddamn ledger, not thinking about the consequences or the fucking mess she was setting up for herself. And now him. They’ve had a night from hell, but the girl continues to chirp at him.

She came too fucking _close,_ right there in his personal space, effortlessly huffing over the walls he’s spent years, building and fortifying. His patience and self-restraint have been stretched too thin, to their absolute limits, and Sandor knows he needs to walk away, put some distance between them, but there’s no place to retreat, and he’s responsible for her. Realizing he’s about to lose his temper, infuriates him even more. _I need a fucking break._

Licking his lower lip, tasting the dried up blood there, Sandor closes his eyes in an attempt to shut out the sound because _hell_ , the girl is an endless waterfall of words and gestures and sentences, but to no avail, and his restraint gives way.

“Fucking hell, Sansa, would you _shut up_ for a goddamn second!” he barks, loudly. Valor looks up from his slumber, lifting his head from his front paws where it was resting, looking at the scene before him. The girl stops speaking immediately.

He knows he scared her, because she swallows noticeably, eyed wide, pulling her knees up and shifting uncomfortably on the couch.

Sandor knows damn well his anger is disproportionate, the result of anxiety and exhaustion and quite frankly not entirely called for, but after his walls were breached and after all the noise and the pressure and the _talking_ , he can’t stop himself.

“You think this is a fucking social visit? Huh? A fucking _slumber party_ , with your friends? Sipping fucking tea, telling stories and sharing jokes?” he blurts out, voice dripping with sarcasm, shooting her an angry look.

“You’re in fucking _danger_. And because of you, so am I. I’ve had to _kill_ a man, to keep you safe. I don’t enjoy taking a life, I’m not a fucking killer. Do you fucking _get_ that?”

The girl was holding his gaze up to now, steeling herself, but at his last outburst, she looks away.

“You took something from a very, _very_ powerful family. And those goddamn fuckers will not stop looking until they get it back. If it means killing you and putting my fucking head on a _fucking_ spike, they’ll do just that!” he rants, smashing his fist on the coffee table, almost breaking it.

Valor has left his doggy bed to come and stand between Sandor and the girl. With his rear towards Sansa, he’s eying Sandor intently, his front paws a little apart. Valor keeps his head low, ears back, and stands very still.

At the sight of the dog, Sandor slowly comes back to his senses. Looking at his fist and taking a couple of steps back, he knows he crossed a line.

There was no holding back. God knows he tried. But some of it needed to be said; he spoke the truth, even if he delivered the lines in a rather shitty way. They’re in a horrible mess of a situation. And he’s taken a life. The girl needs to understand exactly where they stand, if they’re going to have any serious chance to make it out alive.

Avoiding Sandor and looking at the dog, the girl gets up from the couch, looking at him for a split second, before covering her face, running towards the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. Valor keeps his eyes fixed on Sandor, as he slowly makes his way over to the bedroom to lay right outside the girls door.

Sandor sits in the dark for some time, immediately feeling the loss of her presence in the room. Even her chirping doesn’t seem so bad now. Better than the silence, now that it’s just him and his own thoughts and his fucking loss of self-control. _Even the damn dog turned on me,_ Sandor thinks. _Maybe I should sign up for anger management classes after this. If we live._

After sitting in the dark, by himself – Valor’s clearly chosen a side, so he doesn’t count – Sandor is painfully aware that he was out of line. He fucking knew it, but he couldn’t help himself. He should apologize.

If Sandor’s completely honest with himself, he wishes the girl were still here, _chirping_ even, like little birds do.

 _Little bird._ He’s not sure why he started calling her that. It just happened. She reminded him of a phoenix, when he first laid eyes on her. She’s young, but she’s got spirit. She held her own in harsh conditions and proved her resilience on more than one occasion. And her hair… Sandor has never seen a thing of such beauty in his life. It is fire.

 _I may be a fucking bastard, but I know when an apology is due._ Gathering his courage, not for the first time since he met the Phoenix girl, he decides to at least try and say he’s sorry. He just hopes she won’t break his fucking jaw this time.

***

Three short knocks on the door. They remind her of what happened a few hours ago, when Petyr came to her door before another, huge man bashed it in, and Sansa can’t suppress a shiver.

_I’ve had to kill a man._

Like an unwelcome mantra the words keep resonating in her head. Sansa finds she’s not very sorry that Petyr’s gone. He was not a good man. But she does feel responsible for his passing. Sandor said he had to kill him because of her, because of what she did.

Sansa had wondered what had become of that little creep, thinking maybe he’d be unconscious, lying in a ditch somewhere, covered in dirt, but she was too afraid to ask. And with everything that happened, there wasn’t much time to ask questions or linger on things.

She imagines putting her feelings on a scale, to see which is heavier. The guilt she feels toward Petyr, of relief that someone was there to help her when she needed help. That’s when Sansa finds she’s not feeling guilty for Petyr’s death. She feels terrible that Sandor had to be the one to do it. He said it himself: I am _not_ a killer.

When she got ready for bed and changed into shorts and a t-shirt, Sansa contemplated apologizing to Sandor. Because she was talking like a raving loony, even after he’d said how tired he was. And she’d seen it, too. She _wants_ to say she’s sorry. But she’s upset with him, too.

And though Sansa was raised to always make up an argument before going to bed, she thinks this time it might be better to wait. They might need some time to themselves. They could maybe talk things through in the morning, when things would be better, different, after some good rest.

 _They won’t be different, Sansa,_ she tells herself. Because even if he was being an absolute jerk about it, Sandor was right. About some things, he was.

Sandor breaks her train of thought with another knock on the door.

_Maybe we should get this over with right now, and try and put it behind us._

“Yeah?” she says, her voice barely a whisper.

“Sansa? Can I come in? Look, I… I’m sorry about before, okay?”

Not quite ready to accept his half assed attempt at an apology, she remains quiet, listening though the door on what the big guy is doing on the other side.

He remains quiet for some time. Probably thinking of what to say next.

“Look,” he continues. I have something to tell you that I think you’ll want to know,” hinting at the news that Bronn will swing by in the morning.

Sansa remains silent.

“Okay, if you don’t want to talk, I understand. But it’s not just me, you know. Valor wants to apologize, too. He’s sorry he didn’t bite me in the nuts when I snapped at you. Aren’t you, you hairy mutt?”

Sansa can hear the dog barking happily at the sound of his name and she can’t help but laugh a little after hearing Valor, so she decides to walk over to the door to hear what Sandor has to say to her.

Inhaling sharply and preparing herself, she opens the door.

Before her stands Sandor Clegane, and he’s been kind enough to put on a tank top this time. Her eyes dart over his shoulders and upper arms before looking up at his face. She’s struck by the earnest, remorseful look in his eyes.

“Yeah?”

L… Sansa. I’m sorry. I… I’ve been scared, I’m in pain and I am exhausted. But I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I’m sorry.”

She takes a couple of steps back, opens the door a little wider and before she has a chance to invite him in to talk further, Valor sneaks in, claiming a spot on the bed. He’s wagging his tail so hard, his butt is wiggling with it.

Sansa sits down on the bed, waiting for Sandor to make the next move. She pats on the bed to indicate it’s okay for him to sit down next to her, but Sandor chooses to remain close to the door opening instead.

The dog keeps panting and wagging his tail as Sandor is the first one to speak.

“I didn’t mean it when I said it’s your fault we’re at risk, now. Or that other… stuff. That… that was uncalled for.”

Sansa swallows, and reestablishes eye contact. She mulls over her own thoughts for a little, unsure of what to say next.

“I get that you’re tired, Sandor. I’m feeling the same way,” she says. “And when I’m tired, or nervous, I chatter like an idiot.”

He’s about to talk again, but she shhh’s him before he has a chance.

“It’s just… I come from a large family, you know? We… we used to talk. Like all the time. And when I left, I never looked back. I was on my own for what feels like forever. I have missed talking with someone, anyone, so much. I talked to Jenny, my employer, but that was always small talk. I was so happy to have a _real_ conversation again.”

The look on the man’s face grows from tired and remorseful, to showing a guilt like he has accidentally set her house on fire, causing her to lose all her belongings with it.

“I _know_ you’re not a killer. I am so sorry that you had to… do that,” Sansa says, swallowing again.

“But you know what? I’m kind of tired of us having to apologize to each other all the time, too. We’re two adults, caught in a very unusual situation. We’re both doing the best we can. If there’s a problem, let’s just tell it like it is. No need to sugarcoat things. Deal?”

Arching an eyebrow at her like this is not what he was expecting, his facial expression softens a bit. “Yes,” he rasps. “Deal.”

Remembering that he came to tell her something else too, Sansa looks up at Sandor expectantly.

“And?” she says, scratching Valor, who has rolled onto his back, behind his ears.

The large man coughs, and Sansa can see just how utterly spent he is.

“Oh, right. Bronn is coming over, tomorrow morning. I told him you are fine, but he said he wants to see for himself,” Sandor rasps. “I’ll be the fucking judge of that, Clegane!” says Sandor, impersonating his boss.

The prospect of seeing Bronn brings so much joy to Sansa’s heavy heart, that she jumps up from the bed, scaring poor Valor, as she runs up to Sandor like she’s about to give him a hug.

She can stop herself in time, and she holds the door as though she meant to do that instead. Looking up at Sandor, she says: “That’s wonderful. I’d be happy to see Bronn again.”

Sandor sighs.

“It’s late, Little bird. Bronn and his… friend will be here in a couple of hours. Try and get some sleep. Valor can stay here. I’ll be just outside.

With those words he steps back and softly closes the door behind them.

***

Upon hearing new information and evidence had surfaced, possibly enough to end the Lannisters for real this time, Margaery Tyrell was quick to act. Bronn Blackwater had a bit of a shady reputation after he left the police to start his own business, never giving any reason as to why he had left the force in the first place. But in the couple of instances where she had worked with him, he’d proven to be a trustworthy man. A rather attractive specimen in his own right, at that.

Margaery had always fancied men older than herself. Most guys her age were… _such boys._ Something about Bronn, all his little mannerisms, his complete lack of courtesy and etiquette towards others and the rough integrity about him, appealed to her in a way she wasn’t entirely prepared for, the first time they met over a coffee meeting.

Being 18 years her senior, Margaery tried to fight her feelings for him at first. _He’s too old, Marge,_ she told herself. _And you can’t wear heels when walking next to him without towering over him. He’s been alone for ages. You’re looking for a man to show you the ropes, challenge you, not a middle aged bachelor with a receding hairline, doesn’t know how to be around women._

Soon, Margaery realized she hadn’t been totally honest with herself. Sure, Bronn had been alone for a long time, and he was rough around the edges. But he definitely knew how to treat a woman. She was nothing short from being blown away when he asked her out to dinner. He held the door for her, helped her with her seat at the restaurant and he insisted on picking up the tab when they were done. He even offered to take her home, and made no move to get in her skirt when they arrived at her place, even though she was more than ready to invite him up. A peck on the cheek was all that she got.

That was a month ago. She didn’t hear from him for a while, after that dinner at one of the best French restaurants in town. Margaery thought he’d lost interest, but that was before she realized he was playing the part that was usually hers. By keeping his distance, and basically playing hard to get, her interest in him only grew. And he fucking knew it.

There was no denying it. Margaery had fallen for the man. And boy, had she fallen _hard_. 

Hearing from Bronn again, was nothing short of delightful. Hearing his gruff, gravelly voice, even though the call was work related and she knew damn well he needed her help because she was with the CIA, was the best part of her day. And when he told her they might have enough to finally bring down the Lannister empire, she could have kissed the man right through the phone.

It’s chilly out, so Margaery puts on her thick camel colored woolen coat before she gets in the car. Her pale blue skinny jeans and brown suede over knee boots do little to keep her warm, but she’ll crank up the heat in the car, once she’s on her way. Bronn texted her the coordinates of the cabin where the girl has been taken. Sending them to the GPS system in her grey Audi, Margaery starts the engine and takes off.

It’s early in the morning, and there is very little traffic at this hour. She should be at the place within a couple of hours to pick up the paperwork the girl took while working for the Lannisters. Mentally preparing to see Bronn again for the first time since they had that dinner, Margaery finds the warmth spreads to her cheeks. And it’s not because she just turned up the heater in her car. Smirking her famous, charming Tyrell smile, she steps on the gas a little harder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This I believe, is the longest chapter so far. I loved including a new charcacter to the story. Welcome on board, Margaery!  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As always, comments, thoughts and feedback are much appreciated. <3


	17. 17.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bronn and Marge... It's Bronnaery.

17.

Sandor wakes from a deep, dreamless sleep to the sound of a dog huffing and the smell of coffee tickling his nostrils. Blinking his eyes, he lifts his head to get a sense of where he is and what’s going on. Valor barks, licking his face.

The last thing he remembers before falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, was making peace with the girl, leaving the dog with her and closing the door behind her, literally allowing some space to be between them.

Lifting his head again, Sandor is surprised to see the girl is already up. Sitting up a little straighter, it explains why Valor, who keeps pressing his wet dognose to his face, is here. And the smell of coffee. His stomach growls at the thought of caffeine.

The light coming to the living room has found its way there because the girl opened the curtains above the kitchen counter. It’s just a narrow opening, but the sunlight seems determined to chase the dark away; it’s day now. The couch blocked the small ray of sunlight from shining on Sandor’s face when he was lying flat on his back on the matrass, but now that he’s up, there’s no avoiding the lightrays. Sandor finds he is strangely okay with that.

“Good morning, Sansa” he rasps, his voice still thick with sleep. Sandor scratches the back of his head, only to find that half of his hair has fallen out of the pony tail he tucked it in before bed. He probably looks like a swollen, hungover scare crow.

Slightly startled, the girl turns around. She recovers quickly.

“Hey! Good morning, Sandor” she says. At least she sounds okay. Sandor was worried she’d still be upset after his temper tantrum, yesterday night. But if she is, she’s not showing it.

Pouring coffee in two large mugs on the counter before her, she girl looks over her shoulder and says: “Did I wake you? I tried to be as quiet as possible.”

Looking at the time on his phone, Sandor realizes it probably won’t be long for Bronn and the CIA lady will arrive.

“Don’t worry about that. It’s time for me to get up, anyways,” he assures her.

The girl’s put up her hair in one of those intrinsic, donut looking _knot_ things again, and Sandor is amazed to see how fresh and energized she looks after such a short and intense night. Loose, wavy tresses frame her face. And even in just jeans and a simple, white t-shirt, Sandor must admit she is extraordinary.

Tentatively, like she’s afraid of talking too much, the girl asks: “How are you feeling? Is the pain manageable?”

Touching his nose, Sandor is relieved to feel the swelling has gone down compared to last night. It’s probably just a hairline fracture, that should be fully healed within a week or two. His breathing’s not constricted in any way, so he got lucky.

“It’s fine, Little bird. I’m a tough fucker,” he says, sitting up, his large arms supporting him. “It feels better already.”

He’s not had much sleep, but any minute he could get after last night, was most welcome. And though Sandor’s still tired, his energy’s been replenished to a more acceptable level. Less acceptable however, is the stench radiating off of him.

Walking over to the kitchen, Sansa hands him a mug. Grateful for the caffeine, Sandor gulps down a couple of large sips, slightly burning his tongue in the process. He doesn’t care.

Sandor opens the curtains in the kitchen fully, and opens the window. “Small place, and company’s on the way,” he offers. “I’ll open the front door too, let some air in. Valor can go out for a piss.”

The girl nods, supporting the mug with both hands like’s trying to warm them, taking small sips of her own coffee.

 _Such a lady,_ Sandor thinks to himself. _But one with balls. She’s got spirit, indeed._

Gathering his clothes, Sandor looks at the girl.

“Listen, I don’t know exactly when Bronn and Miss Tyrell will be here, but I need to freshen up. I’m gonna pop in the shower real quick. Will you be okay for a sec? Valor is here, and if anything happens, I’m just a few feet away.”

Her eyes narrow a little at his declaration, and Sandor thinks he can see a glint appear in her blues. She pulls her eyebrows up, barely noticeably. “I was going to suggest you take a shower. You… reek.”

Amused by the girl’s attempt to joke around with him, he says: “Best be grateful we’re expecting company, Little bird. Else I’d not wash myself for the rest of our stay here, just to get back at you for saying that.” He keeps a straight face.

The girl looks at him for a couple of seconds, and Sandor knows she’s trying to read his expression. That’s when she giggles, looking up at him again, tiny wrinkles around her eyes.

“I just took a shower myself,” the girl continues. “There are towels in the cabinet under the sink. Oh, and if you manage to figure out how the hot water works, do share your wisdom,” she says. “Now go, before Valor and I pass out at the smell of you.”

Smirking, Sandor pats Valor shortly, finishes the coffee she’s offered and makes his way over to the bathroom.

 _Cold. I could do with a cold shower,_ thinks Sandor. _Might help me wake up more, too._

Searching through the storage space under the sink, Sandor finds a towel right where she said they would be. Hers has been draped over the heating unit on the wall to his left. A strange feeling overcomes Sandor at the sight of something as innocent as a towel. _Her_ towel.

He’s spent so much of his time living alone, that seeing the towel the girl used when she was in the shower right before him, somehow reaffirms the fact that it’s the two of them now, up in that remote cabin. Something about the idea of spending more time in her presence, even if he doesn’t know what is going to happen, _hell,_ even if she talks too much, lifts his spirits.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, Sandor is relieved to see that his lip has almost healed up. His nose is still swollen and bruising has appeared right next to his nose and under his right eye, but it looks better than he’d expected.

Not that it matters much. Broken nose or no, he’s not got a pretty face.

Untying his hair, Sandor reaches for a shampoo bottle. The girl was right about the water, too. Shivering from the icy water touching his skin, Sandor quickly washes his hair and body, keeping the shower session as short as he can, but long enough to wash the stench of last night’s trials and tribulations right off him. Cold but refreshed he turns off the shower, pulls the old shower curtain out of the way, dries himself off and gets dressed as soon as he can, leaving his towel up next to Sansa’s.

When he steps into the living room, Bronn and the CIA lady have already arrived.

***

Sansa fell asleep right after Sandor left, last night. She had a million thoughts in her mind. But relief that they were able to talk about some of the things he said, and the absolute exhaustion that came immediately after were so great, it sent her off to dreams. It wasn’t until Valor started scratching at her door that she woke up.

As Sandor’s away in the shower, Sansa decides to put the time she has to good use. The cabin is quite clean, but they can’t receive guests with all that stuff on the floor. Pulling the mattress he slept on away from the couch to prop it up against a wall somewhere, Sansa takes a better look around the cabin now that it’s daytime. The sunlight warms her, and helps to put everything in perspective.

There’s a small table in the corner, with four wooden chairs. Putting the couch Sandor had to get out of the way to fit his matrass on the floor back to its original position, Sansa decides to put the four chairs outside on the porch. That way they can all sit outside and enjoy the crisp, clean morning air together.

The chairs aren’t heavy. Just as Sansa’s about to return inside to get some of the smaller pillows from the couch, a car pulls up in front of the house. Valor instantly stands before the her, taking the same position he did the night before, when Sandor and she…

The car is a beautiful, silvery grey Audi. Sansa can see a woman’s behind the wheel. She’s got long, soft brown hair. And next to her is… Bronn!

“Valor, it’s okay. They’re friends.” The dog’s posture becomes slightly less tense at her words, but Valor remains watchful. As the car comes to a halt, Sansa pets Valor, holding her breath at the prospect of seeing Bronn, dear Bronn, again. It’s been a while and she’s not seen him as often as she used to, the last couple of years. But he’s family to her.

Bronn and the woman behind the wheel exchange a quick glance between them, before Bronn opens the door on the passenger’s side, getting out of the car. Valor seems to have recognized Bronn, as he’s happily dancing around her feet as Sansa runs toward Bronn, feeling the breaking of tiny twigs under her bare feet. It doesn’t matter.

A sob escapes her chest as she flies straight in the arms of the man she’s known since she was a child, the first, real reminder of home since she left so many months ago.

Sansa giggles, feeling lighter now that Bronn’s here. Letting go of him for a little bit, she says: “Damn, Bronn, did you shrink after all this time or have I really outgrown you?”

Letting go of her as well, Bronn wipes the tears off her cheeks and kisses Sansa on the forehead. “Hey ya, Red. Good to see you again.” A fresh wave of emotions overcomes Sansa at the sound of his voice, and Bronn embraces her again. He doesn’t let go as soon this time.

“Okay, Red, You’re alright. We’ll figure this all out. It’ll be okay.” As the sobbing subsides, Sansa looks at Bronn again, fanning herself. “Wow. Sorry about that. It’s just so good to see family again,” she says. Bronn himself has to swallow past a catch in his throat at those words.

Clearing his throat, he regain his composure. “Is Clegane looking after you? He better be, Sansa, or I will”-

Sansa takes another step back, eager to assure Bronn about the man. “Sandor has been fantastic to me, Bronn. I owe him my life. And he’s been a real gentleman.”

Apparently she’s said something funny, because Bronn breaks out in a fit of laughter.

The woman behind him takes a step in Sansa’s direction.

She has light brown hair and amazing, clear blue eyes. She’s wearing little make up and Sansa can’t help but feel impressed at the natural beauty before her. She’s exactly as tall as Bronn.

Sticking out her right hand, she speaks. “Hi, Sansa. My name is Margaery Tyrell. I’m with the CIA. I think Bronn told you that I would be coming along?”

Margaery offers Sansa a smile so warm and sincere, that instead of taking her hand, she pulls Margaery in for a hug as well. “Thank you for helping us, Margaery,” she says. Margeary hesitantly pats Sansa on the back at that.

“Sorry, I am not usually this sappy. It’s just so good to see people again,” Sansa explains. The lady in front of her nods.

“Don’t apologize. I’m happy you’re safe now, Sansa.”

 “It’s still pretty early. How about I let go of you two for a little while, so we can have coffee? I just made some,” Sansa offers. As they walk back to the house, a freshly washed Sandor Clegane stands in the doorpost, smirking at Bronn. His smile grows as soon as his eyes catch Sansa, who herself didn’t miss the looks Margaery and Bronn exchanged between them, seconds before.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter and lighter chapter, this time. Before we move on to more action packed, dark times... and UST. Brace yo'self!! ;)  
> As always, comments and feedback are much appreciated. Next chapter MIGHT see the introduction of yet a new character. Thanks for reading.


	18. 18.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With enough evidence to go after the Lannisters, it is ON. And there is some inside help.

18.

Something happens after the small talk is over. Sansa can’t put her finger on exactly what is happening, but the atmosphere changes, and she feels like a thick blanket has been thrown over the four of them. Where there was chatter before, now rests an awkward silence.

Maybe it’s because Bronn and Margaery are here, as they are the perfect embodiment of what is really going on. Their presence makes the situation real again. Thinking on that for a while, Sansa looks over at Sandor, who’s standing near the door just a few feet away from her, arms crossed over his chest.

Sandor seemed comfortable enough around his boss. They cracked a joke and Sandor chuckled at Bronn, when he told him Sansa had used the word gentleman to describe his conduct. And Sandor knew Margaery would be coming along. Sansa thinks he might not be all too comfortable around strangers, but he knows why she’s here and she thinks she knows him well enough to know he’s a sensible man.

But as Margaery Tyrell approached the cabin with Bronn, Sansa saw him pull back. Not very visibly, but she’s spent enough time with the big man to recognize some of his body language. His eyes clouded over, the slightly amused glint disappearing from them. He was polite, but the walls were firmly back in place. And Sandor seemed to avoid Sansa though out the entire conversation they had, the four of them. It makes her sad, more than she would like to admit.

“Right, let’s get to it,” says Bronn. Sandor sets his jaw at that, adding to Sansa’s feeling of unease.

Directing his gaze towards Sansa, Bronn is quick to get to the point.

“Sansa, you know why I brought Miss Tyrell?”

Sansa nods.

“You took paperwork with you when you ran away. Lannister paperwork. We’ll need some time to go over everything, but we have good reason to believe this will be a great help in putting the Lannisters away for good this time.”

Seeing it as a cue to get the papers out, Sansa gets up from the couch to collect them from the bedroom. She feels Sandor’s eyes, burning a hole in her back. Back in the bedroom where she spent the first night in the cabin, her mind wanders off to yesterday night. Is that why Sandor is so on edge right now? _We’re here because of you, he said it himself._

_I’ve had to kill a man. And I’m not a killer._

The sight of her bag brings Sansa back. _Now is not the time to dwell, Sansa. Get this done, first._

The papers in her bag have wrinkled up a bit from all the traveling, and it seems funny to Sansa that just a stack of lined ledger sheets are what essentially set in motion this whirlwind that she got herself and others involved in. The stack doesn’t weigh much, but it holds a lot of weight to it, when you think about it. It’s ironic to Sansa. Because it’s just paper. A lighter, or even a single match, could reduce them to mere ashes in a matter of minutes.

Leaving her bag on the bed, Sansa walks back to the living room. Sandor’s looking away again, still refusing to sit down, like he’s actively keeping watch and can’t do so from a seated position. Valor is sitting right by his side, but he doesn’t seem very alarmed.

Bronn and Margaery exchange a quick glance before Margaery, sitting on the edge of her seat, breaks the silence as Sansa hands her the paperwork.

“Thank you, Sansa,” says Margaery. “We’ve been trying to build a case against the Lannister family for years, now. A lot of it is confidential, but I _will_ tell you that this is going to be of great help. It may not seem that way to you right now because of the way things are right now. But I promise they will get better. Just think of it like this: you have saved a lot or people by taking these with you. Even if you didn’t know it at the time. You’ve done a great thing.”

Sansa doesn’t have to look in Sandor’s direction to know that he’s biting his tongue. She feels lost, and very alone at that assumption. Sansa hears what Margaery is telling her, but it’s not sinking in. She can’t let it. All the space within her is taken up by the realization she has missed her family because of a choice she made, putting everyone at risk when she made her decision. And she made Sandor… have to _kill_ someone.

“Sansa? We will work this out,” says Bronn, and she can hear the concern in his voice. “It will take time. But we’ll sort this mess out and get you back home, to your family.”

Blinking her eyes, Sansa looks up at him. He looks worried, adding to Sansa’s feeling of guilt.

“In the meantime, you’ll be safe here. As soon as we get the Lannisters, this nightmare will be over. There are a lot of people working on that. Good people. We’ll get there, Red. We just need time. So hang on, okay?”

“I know, Bronn. And I can’t thank you enough. You too, Margaery.”

After a short silence, Sansa feels just how tired she is. “Now, do me a favor and take those… _fucking_ papers with you. I never want to see them again.”

Margaery gets up at that request and puts the papers in her briefcase. “You got it, Sansa. We’ll take care of these,” she says, taking Sansa’s hand in her own, gently giving it a squeeze.

Bronn looks at Sandor, gesturing he come outside with him. They probably have business to discuss. And though Sandor seemed distant, very far away, Sansa misses him when he steps outside to talk with his boss.

Margaery sits down next to Sansa, who keeps looking at the door.

“I brought you some extra clothes, Sansa. I think we’re about the same size. I had no idea if you needed anything, so I just grabbed some things. I figured you might need some extra. They’re in the bag in the kitchen. I brought a couple of games and magazines, too. Something to help kill the time.”

Warmed by the thoughtful gesture, Sansa tears her eyes off the door, smiling at Margaery. “Thank you, Margaery,” she says, softly.

After a couple of minutes, Sandor and Bronn return to the living room. Sansa can’t read Sandor’s expression, but she sees the bags under his eyes, now. Those amazing, stormy eyes. At least he’s back.

“Time to go, Red,” declares Bronn. “We’ll be in touch. Anything happens, Clegane here has my number.”

Sansa gets up from the couch, hugging Bronn one last time. “I know,” she whispers. I’ll be alright. It was good seeing you again, Bronn.”

Planting a kiss on her forehead, Bronn gives her a wink.

“Work to do, Marge. Let’s go.”

Margaery says her goodbyes and the two are out the door, leaving silence in their wake.

***

He never cared much for his father’s business. Sure, Tyrion has always known his father was involved in criminal activity. It doesn’t take a mastermind to figure that one out. But why get involved with any of that, when you can live like a prince without anyone giving a shit?

Tyrion leads a comfortable life; he has his private quarters in the family mansion, a book collection so great that the Library of Alexandria would pale in comparison, enough computers to have his IT room labelled a server park and he can pretty much have anything his heart desires. Sure, a couple of inches (or feet) would be welcome. But his favorite escorts care not for his height, only for his cash; and being born with Achondroplasia, Tyrion made peace with his somewhat unusual appearance many years ago. He had a harder time dealing with the mocking of his family.

As a child, Tyrion already preferred to keep to himself. Without his brother’s good looks or his sister’s merciless business savvy, his father Tywin always made sure to remind Tyrion that he was a burden before anything else. He made a sport out of reminding his youngest son that he was unwanted, saying if it weren’t for him, his mother would still be alive.

Remembering his father’s cold words used to hurt Tyrion, but he long ago decided to fill his mind with knowledge and skills, instead. Over the years they replaced the memories and the hurt. And his mind grew indeed; Tyrion gained extensive knowledge on Economics, Politics and History. And computer hacking.

He felt good around his computers and books. Still does. They offer simple and true companionship. Never call him an imp, never mock him for being of short stature with a large head and they broaden and sharpen his mind. He can travel the world and see though anyone else’s eyes, without having to step out of his comfort zone. All he has to do, is use a key board or flip through pages.

Where his father’s work is concerned, Tyrion decided to adopt a different approach. Ignorance is bliss. So he has kept his nose out of the business, leaving it up to Cersei. That worked just fine for Tyrion. But then a beautiful, red haired girl entered his life, when she came on board to work as a PA to his nephew, Joffrey.

Joffrey used every chance he got to ridicule Tyrion in front of the girl. He was probably trying to get in her pants. But the girl never took the bait. Instead, she treated Tyrion with the same respect she showed everyone else. She was kind, always friendly and polite. She didn’t look down on him, not once. Instead, she made him feel useful, that one time when she asked for his assistance when her work computer had frozen up.

She was only with the Lannister household for a couple of months. Tyrion never gave much thought to the how or why when she had taken off; he guessed Joffrey had come across an even prettier – or more promiscuous – girl, ditching Sansa. And his old habit kicked in; not sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong and where you don’t want it. He carried on as always, devouring page after page, be they digital or paper ones.

But without knowing it, the girl forever changed him. She always remained in the back of his mind somewhere, and from time to time Tyrion asked himself what had become of Sansa Stark. He started looking for her on social media networks, as he had done before. But she was gone. Her social media accounts hadn’t been updated in months. Her brothers posted messages on their Facebook pages, asking if anyone had seen or heard about their sister, Sansa. She was missing. An emotion unknown to Tyrion had taken hold of him: worry. Worry for someone other than himself.

He _knew_ Cersei had to be behind the disappearance of the girl. That was shortly before Tyrion overheard Cersei speaking on the phone, finding out that Sansa Stark had taken something from the family. And Cersei very much wanted it back.

His sister had always been perfect at keeping a certain appearance about her. Calm, collected, fearless. _Untouchable_. But this time was different. She tried her best to hide it, and you had to really _know_ Cersei to be able to tell. But she was afraid.

Tapping into her phone confirmed what he already knew. She’d been talking to Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. No more than a simple deduction led to the conclusion that the girl was still alive. His sister had to be desperate, deciding to contact Gregor Clegane in order to find her. And: if the Mountain was indeed going after Sansa, she would be dead before long. Tyrion dreaded thinking about what she’d have to endure at Gregor Clegane’s hands before he’d finally kill her. Death would be mercy.

This is when Tyrion found himself stuck. Going back to his old motto on ignorance being bliss was out of the question, for he no longer was ignorant. All his life he’d wasted, not making a difference, but hiding and indulging in his own needs, safely, behind closed doors. If the girl was to have a single chance, that would have to end. And the first time in his life, Tyrion felt like he _had_ to do something for someone other than himself.

That night he spent hours behind his computer. Finding out about Margaery Tyrell, the CIA agent, was an easy task. She was a young and a upcoming star within the agency. It didn’t take Tyrion very long to discover that she was in charge of a large investigation on the Lannister family. But also, she was actively looking for Sansa Stark, working together with a rather shady PI, Bronn Blackwater.

If Sansa was to stand a chance, he had to do something. If it meant setting the final death trap for his own family, so be it. What kind of family were they, anyways? Tyrion decided the minute he found out Sansa was alive, and in danger. Margaery Tyrell, leading the investigation, would be his first contact. She has to be the one.

 

***

Coming back from having a much needed chat to catch up with Bronn and seeing him and the CIA lady off, Sandor finds Sansa as quiet as a mouse. Maybe the severity of things is finally sinking in, now that she’s spoken with the CIA. Sandor quickly brushes that thought aside. She’s young, but Sansa isn’t dumb. Something else is up.

He closes his eyes for a couple of seconds, trying to create some order in the chaos in his own mind. They’ve entered phase two now; it’s no longer only about keeping the girl safe. They’re actively going after the Lannisters, and they’re going hard.

Taken out of her own train of thoughts, probably because she heard him closing the door, the girl looks in his direction, but her eyes don’t meet his. Seeing him, the girl pulls up her knees and hugs herself, like she’s cold.

She looks fragile, making Sandor unsure on how to proceed. Maybe she needs some time alone.

“I will regret taking those papers with me for the rest of my _life_ ,” she says with a finality, her voice strained with guilt.

“I’ve caused more harm than I did good. Everyone I love is in danger. _You’re_ in danger. And that’s my fault. I’m happy Margaery took the papers with her. And I hope she can use them, but I never want to lay eyes on anything Lannister related, _ever_ again.”

Sandor looks up at her admission, and sees he wasn’t wrong. Something is up, and it’s weighing heavily on her.

Paying no mind to the fact that his head hurts again, Sandor squats down before Sansa, leveling his face with hers. She’s the one avoiding his gaze now, as she seems too afraid to look at him. For a fraction of a second, Sandor thinks to himself: see? She’s afraid of your ugly mug. Better take a step back. But he ignores the familiar voice in his mind, bringing his hand up under her chin, gently lifting her head before his large hands find hers.

He remains silent for a while, looking her in the eyes. It reminds him of the way she held his gaze, only a day before.

“Hey now, where’s all this coming from?” he asks. His voice raspy, but softer than his usual tone. Sansa doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t look away, not even with his face this close to hers.

Trying to ignore the little voice in the back of his head that tells him to pull back, because _walls_ , he holds her gaze.

“What you did, might finally bring down those fuckers, Sansa,” Sandor continues. She remains silent. That’s when he realizes.

“Is this… is this about _yesterday_?”

Slowly, Sansa nods at him.

“I’m just… I’ve been so stupid. You’ve had to kill someone because of me. And I broke your nose. And I’m so, _so_ scared, Sandor. I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Squinting his eyes a little, Sandor continues to hold her small, slender hands in his own, before bringing his left hand to rest in her neck, caressing her cheek with his thumb.

“No more of that. You don’t have to be afraid, not while I’m here. No one is ever going to hurt you. Not the Lannisters, not anyone. I won’t let them. I’ll kill them, first. Do you hear me?”

Sansa can only nod at Sandor again, as silent tears stream down her face. Closing her eyes, she leans over a little, resting her forehead against Sandor's. He closes his eyes, too, and they sit together in silence for some time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome Tyrion! As always, please let me know what you think. Your comments are much appreciated.


	19. 19.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How are Sansa and Sandor and Valor getting along? Start of UST OKAY

19.

The days seem to ease in to one another, as Sansa can’t remember what time she went to bed last night. It’s been four days, now. Four days since she saw Bronn, since the first day of _everything._ Sansa is grateful they’ve found a way, a _rhythm_ , to share the small, remote cabin. He told her he’d been living alone for many years, and Sansa feared he’d have difficulty sharing his space, but they’ve worked it out.

They spend a lot of time in each other’s company. Sometimes playing one of the games Margaery brought. Sansa giggles at the memory of yesterday, when Sandor threatened he’d rather die than lose another game of Scrabble to her. “But you’re more than welcome to beat me at push ups, little bird,” he’d said. Sometimes they sit in complete, comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of the forest and the animals around them. Other times they talk. About politics, jobs they’ve had, their past, and life before the Lannister Episode, as they’ve come to call it. And their families.

Sandor hasn’t talked about his family much, or his brother, after he shared with her how he’d gotten his scars. He did mention that he had a sister, too, who was murdered. He’d not talked to his parents since he was a teenager. Never fully appreciating how fortunate she was to have her family, listening to Sandor made her heart ache for him, wishing she could ease some of his pain. Because though he didn’t say it, not literally, she could hear the hurt in his voice. It was so clear in the way he spoke.

Not wanting to jeopardize the companionship that’s grown between them, Sansa avoided the subject, giving it time. If Sandor ever does want to talk about his brother, it will be on his terms. When he’s ready. I'll be there to listen.

Another thing she’s learned about her _house mate,_ is that he is a terrible cook. He’s said as much when he tried his hand at making them a meal, but it was worse than Sansa thought possible. He’d overcooked the vegetables, the potatoes were as hard as rocks and the meat… the _poor_ steak, no longer looked like tender, luscious meat, but a black piece of rubber with a spongy texture.

After the cooking debacle Sansa offered to give him some cooking lessons. He was not a bad student, and he’d spent some time in the kitchen, taking notes and asking her questions about how long vegetables did need cooking.

It endeared Sansa to see this big man, obviously someone who knew how to take care of himself, taking notes on how long to boil an egg. Something changed in the past days. Thinking of when (when, not if, Sansa reminded herself) it would be time to part ways, her heart sank a little. And though it was probably just in her mind, she thought she’d seen Sandor looking at her just a little too long after she’d explained to him about not using a knife to pry burnt food loose in a skillet.

She wasn’t ready to admit that he did _something_ to her, something warm, wonderful and scary, too. But it was definitely there; a tiny glimmer of hope and promise, of something fragile and beautiful and full of passion. It was there every day she felt relieved to see him, sitting in the living room. Every time they spent time together. And that one time, two nights ago, when she couldn’t sleep, snuck out of her bedroom and spent some time in his presence without him knowing it. He was sleeping, and she felt thankful, just watching him, taking one breath after the other. When Valor rose from his doggy bed, thinking Sansa had come out for playtime, started barking, she didn’t know _how_ fast she needed to spin on her heels and dash back to where she came from. Because how would she explain what she was doing there?

***

Sansa is dreaming, and everything about this dream is different. There are no threats, no metaphors, no abstract images that she can’t make out. No darkness, no noise, no loneliness. It’s light and warm. Sansa doesn’t have to speak; there is a silent understanding and she revels in it; just being is enough. For all her good, her bad, her flaws and her intentions; she feels loved. By someone she can’t see, but the feeling is so secure, she knows without having to see. It’s someone from her family, but not her blood. _Could it be? Is it Valor?_

With a satisfied sigh, Sansa wakes up to the smell of cooked bacon and eggs, bringing her back to the cabin. She’s sad for waking up. Because in spite of her amazing company, it also means she’s having to face a new day of insecurities, of a danger always present.

She remembers her dream so clearly. Who’s the presence with her? Wishing she could feel the calm and ease and warmth she experienced in her dream for just a few more minutes, Valor walks in the room, pushing his face through the door and using his body to open the door further. He’s created more room for the wonderful aromas to enter her nose.

The smell of breakfast being made - which means Sandor was the first one to be up this morning - speaks to her stomach, and Sansa decides there are worse ways to wake up. Reaching for the vest by her bedside, one of the items Margaery was kind enough to bring her, Sansa quickly puts it on over her spaghetti top. She’s wearing fleece shorts. Looking down, Sansa is shocked to see that she is in dire need of a shave. Tiny hairs cover her legs, that have not seen sunshine in ages. Luckily her hairs are very pale, but Sansa can’t stand the sight of them. _When did I let myself go like this?_

Quickly changing into her long sweat pants, Sansa scratches Valor behind his ears. The dog seems to take a liking to Sansa; at the slightest bit of attention he drops himself on the floor, belly up, his big dark brown eyes begging her for a belly rub.

The smell of eggs and bacon is very beckoning, but Sansa can’t say no to such a display of affection and trust. Squatting next to Valor, she uses both of her hands to rub him on the belly, making Valor the happiest German Shepherd on the planet. “How are you even a police dog, you big, hairy baby?”, she says, lovingly. Valor looks at her expectantly.

“Technically, he’s retired,” a familiar voice answers. Sansa got so caught up in paying attention to Valor, that she didn’t hear Sandor coming. “Good morning,” he says.

Sansa looks up at Sandor. He looks better, more rested than before. And the scarring on his face remains prominent; a constant reminder of how he was tortured. But something about him has changed, there’s no denying it. He seems… content.

He’s wearing runners clothes and looks like he’s been up for a while. “Good morning, Sandor,” she returns. Unsure of what to say next, she aims her attention to the dog again, painfully realizing Sandor looks extremely well built, and his current outfit leaves little to her imagination. _Gods, Sansa, what’s wrong with you? Talk about the weather. The smell of breakfast. Ask if he’s been up long. Anything._ Breaking her brains over a proper response, she says: “Retired? He looks so young.”

“He _is_ young, Valor just turned three. He’s a good dog, and he’s done some real solid police work, too. But during an incident, he lost his partner and he suffered trauma from it. He never quite bounced back from losing Harry. They worked together since Valor was just a puppy.”

Struck by the news, Sansa pets Valor a little more, though she is more than ready to have breakfast. “That is so sad,” says Sansa. “He looks like such a happy dog. So he’s not with the police anymore?”

“No, they had to let him go. He’s been through extensive training and he was great at it. Loved it, too. But dogs are sensitive animals. Especially German Shepherds. They’re loyal, hardworking and very intelligent. But they get very attached to their humans.”

_Not entirely unlike a man I have gotten to know recently, Sansa can’t help but think to herself._

Curious to learn more about Valor, Sansa asks: “What happens to police dogs when they can no longer work? Do they always retire?”

Sandor seems happy with the topic of conversation. “We’d have to ask Bronn because I don’t know exactly. Usually they retire after they reach a certain age and are either put up for adoption or taken in by the one of the police officers they worked with. Valor’s buddy died, and he wasn’t doing well, so they couldn’t include him in the adoption program yet. Bronn took him in a couple of months ago, but only because he wanted Valor to have some time away from the kennels. He cheered up when Bronn took him in, but I think he’s missed having a companion. Valor’s still on the mend. I guess he’ll be up for adoption in a while. In fact, I think this is the first time I’ve seen him this happy since Harry.”

As though he understands they are talking about him, Valor turns around on his belly, keenly looking at Sansa, then Sandor and Sansa again. As Sansa starts scratching him behind the ears, he closes his eyes and cries softly. The dark spots above his eyes look like eyebrows, adding to the expressiveness of his face. If she didn’t know any better, Sansa could swear he’s actually crying. “Really? Why do you think that is?” Sansa enquires.

Sitting down to pet Valor as well, Sandor seems a little puzzled at that question. “Him being happy now? Well… I think he likes you, Sansa. You have a calming effect. On the _dog,”_ Sandor adds, a little too hurried.

It gives Sansa some food for thought, although she already made up her mind after hearing the dog’s sad story and learning he’ll be up for adoption. “Well, then. I’ll tell you what, Valor. When all this is over, let’s see I we can talk to Bronn. I’ve been lonely too, just like you. And that seems silly. What do you say, you wanna come and live with me? How does that sound?”

Valor gets up at that promise and forgets all about his formal training, because he licks Sansa’s hands and face, making her giggle.

Getting up again, Sandor smiles at her promise to Valor, and the smile reaches all the way up to his eyes. _I wish you’d smile more,_ thinks Sansa.

He gives her a long, hard look, as though he’s waiting for her to say more.

“I think that would make Valor the happiest and luckiest dog on the planet, little bird,” he rasps. “Being in your company for the rest of his days… it must be the best thing in the world.”

Sansa feels awkward at that declaration, and she can’t help but shake the feeling that Sandor is hinting at something else as well. _Stop it, Sansa. It’s your empty stomach talking._

Sandor breaks the silence. Sansa thinks he must have heard her thoughts – or roaring belly- as he says: “I meant to ask, little bird. You hungry? I’m still not much of a cook, but I made some eggs and bacon. They don’t look half bad if I say so myself. You up for joining me?”

Looking up at the big man, and trying to keep her face dry in the meantime from Valor’s unrelenting, enthusiastic administrations, she nods. “That sounds fantastic.”

“Valor? Enough, stop it,” Sansa says. The dog immediately stops his tongue work and sits up neatly at her command, instantly becoming the poster dogchild for good doggy behavior. “Good boy,” she says. As his tongue falls out of his mouth, Valor pants happily, looking very funny for trying to wag his tail from a seated position.

 _I will ask Bronn about adopting Valor the next time I talk to him,_ Sansa decides. They should all be together, in good times and in bad. And that’s when she realizes: Valor isn’t the family she dreamt of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in love with these two. And with Valor. I want a German Shepherd puppy, but I have three cats already ;) I figured to add a bit more of a breather before announced darker times commence. So here it is. Eeeeee, I can't believe this is chapter 19 already! 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and feedback, as always, are more than welcome and much appreciated.


	20. 20.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y'all wanted UST. Well, here it is.

20.

The matrass is old, doesn’t offer much support and if he lies flat on his back, his feet are deemed to bangle just over the edge of it. The cabin isn’t very warm, but poorly ventilated, meaning he can’t sleep with, or without a blanket. He’d prefer to sleep in his birth suit, but there’s the case of a little bird who has a tendency to wake up in the middle of the night and roam around the house in an attempt to regain sleepiness.

There’s trust between them, but that’s one confrontation he’d rather avoid. Though he wouldn’t particularly mind seeing her without her clothes on; even if it’s just to see if she really looks the way she does in his mind’s eye, whenever he allows himself to think of her like that, picturing her naked.

His days are similar; with no unwanted but much needed visits to Mr. Singh’s store, no evening runs through the rainy streets of what used to be his hometown or lifting improvised weights in his spare bedroom at home, no series on television to serve as sound in the background because the silence at times would threaten to swallow him whole and no awkward first time encounters with strangers that are taken aback by his appearance or intimidated by his size.

But Sandor feels he’s regaining more of who he used to be, before his face and much of his self-esteem, much of _him,_ was taken. He’s not been very aware of it, but six years after that black day, he’s starting to heal, little by little, becoming whole again; even if his face is not.

He is sleeping, dreaming of a certain redhead. A fiery redhead that has huffed over his carefully crafted, thick and sturdy walls. Without knowing, without trying, just by being who she is and wanting to see past what he has used as a shield, a weapon, to keep anyone from coming too close. She did it without intention, other than just wanting to get to know _him._

She has no idea of how beautiful she is, and no idea of the effect she has on him. It frustrates Sandor, making him painfully aware and convinced that she will never look at him, and _see_ him the way he sees her.

And she doesn’t know how beautiful she is. At first Sandor thought that was just because of her age, and a kind of naiveté he associated with it. But it’s not; it’s just _who_ she is. Sansa isn’t trying to be pretty, or flaunting her looks, or using them to get what she wants.

It’s her thick, wavy red hair, those big blue eyes that have that amused glint to them when she’s playing with Valor. The fullness of her lips, the curve of her prominent cheekbones, that lovely little nose… But most beautiful is her expression. When she’s lost in thought, maybe just daydreaming, when she’s not putting on a polite smile, but the way people are completely and utterly themselves, when they think no one’s watching. That’s when she’s most beautiful to him.

It’s the way she plays with tresses of her hair, how the corners of her mouth naturally turn up slightly, even when she isn’t laughing, and the kindness in her beautiful eyes. There’s an integrity there, and Sandor’s seen it, and it makes him proud, because most people probably don’t bother look any further, struck by the beauty she possesses.

In a way, it makes them alike. She the beauty with an inner world of beauty to offer; he’s the beast, a big man, a recluse, with a big mouth and a world of vulnerability and hurt behind the armor.

For a moment, Sandor thinks their roads were meant to cross. Maybe Meribald, his old fighting coach, was right. _“Things happen for a reason, Sandor. It may not seem that way now. But there is a path for everyone. You just have to find out which is yours; and whom you’re meant to walk it with.”_

In his dream, she holds out her hand to him. And he feels anxious, guard up, but he takes her hand in his own anyway. They walk together in silence. No words are needed to clarify or explain anything. He thinks they might be on the beach, because in the background he can hear sounds of water splashing, and there’s a salty, sea like smell in the air.

When she stops walking, he stops, too. She turns around, and looks at him without any fear, or pity, but with appreciation. With love. She lets go of his hand, and he feels her fingers slide down the length of his, but before he can question why or feel the loss of her warmth there, she looks at his mouth, touches his face, draws him nearer to her to close the distance between them, closes her eyes and kisses him. It’s light and innocent, until Sandor feels her tongue, tentatively but surely, touching his lips and encouraging him to open up for her.

The feeling of his cock straining in his boxers, painfully twitching and trying to find room where there isn’t any, wakes him up as he curses under his breath, throwing the blankets off.

“Hey sleepyhead!” sounds her sweet voice from the other end of the room. “Were you dreaming? I swear I could hear you moaning just now,” says Sansa, as she walks over to where he was sleeping.

Looking down, Sandor realizes the effect of kissing Sansa in his dream has followed him to the land of the living and awake, as his erection is very visible in his boxers. Searching for the blankets he just threw off and struggling to pull them back over him before she has a chance to see what is going on, he can feel drops of sweat trickling down his back.

“Little bird. What time is it?”

“A bit after ten,” she answers, sounding happier than anyone should have a right to be, considering the circumstances they’re in.

Sandor can feel his cock twitch at the sound of her voice. It makes him feel like a god damn schoolboy, hormones racing at the speed of light. Because he dreamt about a kiss. An innocent, god damn _kiss._

“Fuck, that late? I was planning on calling Bronn,” he declares, sounding moody. The girl seems to pick up on his irritation, as a look of concern sweeps over her face.

_That beautiful face._

As she approaches him, coming closer, the look of concern grows into one of worry. “My, Sandor, you’re dripping with sweat! Are you alright?”

She lowers herself onto the mattress, her eyes never leaving his. So close. Too close. Sandor closes his eyes, cursing and relishing the proximity of her. As she bites her lower lip, she touches his forehead with the back of her hand, and it’s too much; all he can do is close his eyes again, and do his best to keep breathing.

“Sandor. You’re all flustered. What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Is it because of your nose? I read once that bone fractures can cause a fever, and”-

He doesn’t let her finish, can’t. She needs to take a step back, _now_ , or he might not be able to stop himself from reaching for her with his hands, fisting her hair and covering her mouth this his, mimicking what happened in his dream before the feeling of his erection woke him up.

 “Sansa. I’m fine. I just need a cold shower. That’s all.”

Struggling to remain his composure and his calm, short sentences are all he can manage at the moment.

But she’s not having it; the little bird clearly thinks something is wrong as she puts her hand around the wrist of his hand, trying to assess his pulse there. Her hand is too small to encircle his entire wrist, so she uses both of her hands to keep him in place while she tries to determine his heartrate.

The soft, cool feeling of her fingertips aren’t helping to cool his boiling blood, and Sandor can’t take much more, pulling his wrist out of her hands, carefully but deliberately.

“Sansa? I just need a cold shower. I’ll be okay.”

She looks up at him, frowning, puzzled. Sandor can tell she doesn’t understand what’s going on, because she looks almost as worried as she did when she cleaned his face in the bathroom, a couple of days ago.

The memory of her fingertips on his face, on him, is about to push him over the edge and Sandor realizes he is left with a choice; making a mess of himself under the covers, or doing just that someplace else. He needs a cold shower, and some release, and he needs it _now._

Throwing the covers off him again and feeling _fucking_ thankful that at least he’s somewhat dressed, Sandor knows he needs to go. Sansa has her eyes on him, and a different expression takes over; her pupils dilate and she’s biting her lower lip, her eyes fixated on his chest, darting over his shoulders before resting on his chest again. She follows his movement as he pushes himself up, looking at the hairs on his chest, his lower abdomen-

“O… Oh,” is all she can master, as she’s about eye to eye with his stiff cock. Sandor knows he should feel awkward, fucking _embarrassed_ at the situation even, but he’s not.

“S… so yeah, eh, a cold shower, I uh, _see_ ,” she stammers, choking on her own words. Looking up at him, she hurries to get up from the mattress on the floor, taking a few steps back, positively flustered.

“I eh, will take Valor uh, out,” she continues.

Sandor nods, and he can’t help but smirk a tiny bit at her words, as he makes his way over to the bathroom, thinking he’s not going to fix this boner with cold water alone.

***

 _Okay, no problem_ , Sansa tells herself as she walks around the house with Valor.

Because she’s an adult, we’re both adults, and these things can happen. It’s normal for men to have an erection in the morning. I read about that in Cosmo. It’s perfectly normal, no reason to get all flustered. It’s not a big deal.

Except it is. _Big_. And a _big_ deal. Sansa felt immediate worry kick in, when she found Sandor all flustered, and dripping with sweat. A huge wave of guilt overcame her, because of course he was having a fever, and that was all her fault, because she injured him. She couldn’t stop herself from touching him again.

And the big deal really is, she _wanted_ to touch him. Of course out of concern. But there’s something else, too. And Sansa wasn’t ready to admit to it yet, because she’s young, he’s older than her, and he has problems, and they’re caught in an unusual situation, and she’s read about girls having feelings for the person that saved their lives. It’s normal, but everything about this… _thing_ she’s feeling, is _not_ normal. Sansa has been wondering what it would be like to kiss him, pretty much right after they sat, forehead to forehead, holding hands.

And she couldn’t stop herself from looking at him, before. Even if she could clearly tell that he was uncomfortable, it was obvious enough from the sound of his voice alone, and she should have given him some space…

She wanted to be there, close, touching him, smelling him, feeling him. And seeing him.

 _Gods,_ she loves seeing him; all of him. The hair on his chest. The broadness of him. The contradiction he embodies, or pure, raw strength and vulnerability, carefully tucked and kept away.

The way he’s himself around her, not trying to sugar coat his words anymore, and the way she gets more and more glimpses of the man behind the sturdy, broody exterior. The way his hair hangs over his shoulder, but falls forward when he tilts his head over to the left, as he seems to do whenever something amuses him. She wants to touch his hair, move it out of his face, she wants…

With butterflies in her stomach, _low_ in her stomach, Sansa’s pondering comes to a screeching halt. She is completely and utterly attracted to Sandor, and she knows it.

Looking at the dog, she says: “Valor, I wish you were a human being. Because I need your advice, before I decide to do something absolutely stupid and rash. I… I think I’m falling in love with the big and broody man.”

Speaking the words feels like a relief, even if her words are directed to a dog, rather than the other object of her affection, and she decides to let it all out.

“There is no way. We can’t. But I want to… So, so bad. What the heck should I do? I don’t even know if he likes me at all. He probably just thinks of me as a stupid little girl. A dumb little bird, that can’t take care of herself. He must think of me as… as a part of his _work._ ”

Sighing, the dog looks up at his new lady friend, his big, brown eyes full of what Sansa thinks must be a kind of understanding. Because at her admission he walks back to her, putting his muzzle all the way up to her hip, trying to persuade her to change the direction she’s walking in. Sansa allows Valor’s directions and she slowly walks back to the cabin, unsure of what to say or do once she gets back inside.

Maybe talk to Sandor. Or have a cold shower, once he’s done. Or a big cup of coffee, first.

Whatever she decides, and whatever happens, Sansa knows in her heart of hearts that something between them has changed forever, even if she never tells Sandor how she feels, and even if she never acts on her feelings for him.

As she walks back to the cabin, Valor is close behind her; ever keeping watch.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing a fic, first time writing what I hope is some good ole UST :D I'd love to hear what you think. Be prepared for more of this in the chapters to come. Hehe, I said 'come'. *puts duct tape over fingers to stop herself from typing any more*
> 
> Oh one more add; I'll not be able to update in at least a week. Holiday! I'm visiting Oslo. But I bet it will kick up the inspiration and I'll be back at it probably as soon as my love and I return :)


	21. 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anonymous phonecall about Sansa's safety.  
> But first... UST?

21.

As she’s making her way back to the cabin, kicking away dust and leaves strewn across the terrain, Sansa thinks about what she should do next. All she knows is that Sandor has an effect on her, there’s no denying it. But she’s not sure she’s ready to act on any feelings she might have for him, and it’s not the right time.

And that’s not taking into account that she has absolutely no idea about what’s going on inside Sandor’s mind most of the time. Even if she’s learned to read his expression better in the few days they have spent together, he’s not much of a talker; he doesn’t seem to like sharing much about himself.

Sansa realizes she doesn’t even know her own feelings, not _really_. He’s not her usual type, if there is such a thing. In the past, Sansa dated jocks. Collegeboys. _Exactly, boys. And look how well that worked out._ He’s older, and he has some issues. But who doesn’t?

Still, she can’t put her finger on what it is, exactly. Is it lust? Because even with the scars on his face and the way he scowls more than he smiles, there is something about him. About his hair, his eyes, his physique. Is she drawn to him because of the protection he provides, making her feel safer than she’s had in months? Is it about the bits and pieces of his character that she’s gotten to see on the few occasions he let her in? Surely, the more she’s seen of who he really is, the stronger she’s felt… _something._

Maybe it’s a case of ego. It made Sansa very good about herself, getting him to open up to her, telling her personal things. About how his brother was the one to scar his face. Thinking back to when she touched him there, Sansa longs to be closer to him again. Even if it’s just to be around him, have him near. It’s about more than physical attraction; Sansa wants to keep him safe, too.

Sansa is usually not one to wait without taking any initiative. But the repercussions of her last impulsive decision are still fresh in her mind. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be less impulsive this time, but show some patience, and see where things take her. Inhaling deeply to take in the clear forest air, she decides to return to the cabin, and do nothing. Maybe Sandor will start the conversation.

Valor has already walked up to the cabin, and looking over his shoulder, he’s patiently waiting for his lady friend on the porch. Just as Sansa catches up with him and opens the door to get inside, Sandor has finished his shower.

His huge frame blocks most of the light coming from the bathroom behind him and Sansa has to do her best to stick to her plan of waiting. He looks like he wasn’t expecting her to be back so soon, because he’s not put his clothes back on. A towel hanging low around his hips, dangerously loosely, is all that he’s wearing.

Sansa’s eyes are drawn to the broadness of his shoulders. His skin looks shiny and wet from the drops of water that fall from his freshly washed, still damp hair. They slowly fade into the dark hair covering his chest, his stomach…

As her eyes reach the edge of the towel hanging there, Sansa realizes that she’s staring. Again. She rips her eyes from the sight before her, and looks him in the eyes, feeling a warmth creeping over her cheeks.

_Shit._

“Hey,” is all she can manage.

“Hey yourself,” he says, his voice sounding raspier than usual, soft. Sandor brings his hand to the little knot he made in the towel, as if he’s trying to make extra sure it won’t come undone as he stands there, dripping water all over the floor before her.

“You eh… Have a good… _shower?”_

Sansa can’t help but smirk a little at her own jest. So much for her plan of sitting in the living room, having a cup of coffee and _waiting._ This is not going according to plan, but she doesn’t much care.

Sandor hasn’t missed her intent, and that familiar glint in his stormy eyes, the one that she loves seeing there so much, appears again, making Sansa think it should be illegal for any man to have such thick and long eyelashes.

His eyebrows arch and the good corner of his mouth curls op slightly, as he stands there, still holding onto that towel a little awkwardly, towering over her.

Sansa has to stretch nearly every muscle in her neck to keep her face leveled with his as much as possible, but she doesn’t want to move, afraid the moment will be over if she does.

Sandor remains quiet for some time, his gaze lowering from her eyes to her nose and finally resting on her lips, before searching her eyes again.

“It was _great,”_ he says, heavily emphasizing the last word.

His eyes cloud over slightly, and Sansa sees his Adam’s apple move as he swallows visibly. He knows they’re entering new, previously uncharted territory, and she knows it, too. It makes Sansa feel a little nervous and oh so good.

He keeps his gaze fixed on Sansa, and then pauses for a short moment, making Sansa think he’s about to say something else, but needs some time to find the words.

 _Say something, anything, give me a clue,_ she wills him in her mind.  

Sandor coughs to clear his throat before he continues to speak, and he takes a small step back. It’s barely noticeable, but Sansa has been so enchanted by the closeness they shared that she immediately feels the loss of him as he’s no longer standing his ground and backing away, even if it’s only a few inches, no more.

As he brings his free hand up to the back of his neck to scratch himself there, he says: “I should probably see what I can do to fix the hot water, little bird. It was cold.”

Not sure of what’s causing her to be so forward, because she decided to wait, and this is _not_ how she usually does things, impulsiveness be _damned_ , Sansa takes a step in Sandor’s direction, regaining proximity, her eyes not leaving his.

He raises his eyebrows as the difference in height increases even further between them, because something makes Sandor slightly raise his chin, jaw set, and Sansa thinks he’s probably surprised at her sudden move, maybe feels exposed, but he’s not going to give up standing his ground this time, and she thinks it could mean he’s curious. Could it?  

“Cold?” she says, until the distance between them is barely an arm’s length. Sansa bends her neck backwards as best she can to not break the eye contact, and Sandor notices it’s not the most comfortable way for her to stand, because he allows her nearing him and lowers his head slightly. When his wet hair falls over his shoulder, Sansa feels a very strong urge to touch his hair, finger comb it and brush it away, out of his face, the burned side too, and it’s making Sansa feel even warmer. _Warm._

“If you don’t like the cold… It’s the two of us, here. And there are other, more pleasant ways to get _warm_ , Sandor,” she blurts out.

And at those words she spins on her heels, hoping to be around the corner, in the living room to get coffee, or no, make that _whiskey_ , and out of Sandor’s sight before he can see that her face matches her hair color completely. She storms out of the hallway, leaving a completely dumbfounded Sandor in her wake.

***

Kicking out her high heels to allow her feet some quality time, Margaery turns on the lights in her apartment. The tall reading lamp in the corner of her living room casts a nice, warm glow, revealing her taste in minimalistic black and white; the only splash of color is provided by the bouquet of bright yellow roses on her dining table.

Others might find her décor to be cold, uncompromising, not much unlike herself. Margaery has always put ambition first, because she knew she wasn’t going to get as far as she wanted by throwing dinner parties and going on shopping sprees every weekend. Work always came first, and it still does.

She doesn’t have many friends. And though it gets lonely sometimes, having a limited social life has made it easier to compartmentalize the different aspects of her life, helping her to keep her eyes always on the goal of making a name for herself.

So Margaery doesn’t have a great group of friends and she might not call as often as she should and she’s missed birthdays on occasion, there is a support system there, that’s never failed her. Her family. Margaery gets on well with her brothers Loras and Willas. When Loras, her younger brother, came out of the closet, Margaery was the one he turned to first.

Willas, who lost his left leg in a nasty car accident when he was 19, was the eldest of three. He’d been raising his twin boys of 8 alone since his wife passed away with cancer after a short sick bed. He’d been through tough times, but he was doing great with the boys and he was an amazing father to them. Margaery’s heart still ached when she thought back to the day when her sister in law passed away. She never saw Willas in tears before, not even when doctors told him he’d lost his leg after the crash. He was so strong through it all. But when his boys started to realize their mom was never going to come back, the tears came. He broke.

For a long time, Margaery was worried that Willas would never come back from what had happened to him, not completely. But just the other day, he sent her an e-mail to let her know he was dating again. He said it was too soon to reveal more about this new lady that had taken an interest in him, but he’d be in touch.

Keeping things simple and organized worked well for her, until a certain foul mouthed, short, slightly balding, _charming_ ex-cop came into her life. Her _professional_ life, at first. But he’s in the yellow roses on her table, in the hope it’s him every time her phone chimes and he’s always there in the firm spot he’s made for himself in the back of her mind and in her heart.

And then there’s the stubborn, redheaded young lady that had no idea of what she’d cause by almost casually stealing a couple of papers, but they have proven to be the biggest break in her case against the Lannisters. It’s taken months of hard work, investigation, persuasion, reading and talking to people to build something that could resemble the possible beginning of a case against the powerful Lannister family. And now it looks like they have enough to finally, _finally_ bring them to justice.

Hopefully it won’t be too long before Sansa will be safe again, reunited with her family. Thinking back to just a couple of days ago, her heart feels for the young woman. She’s left with nothing, and she’s fearing for her life. Margaery could tell she was trying hard to stay strong, but she was scared, and tired. But it seems she has a good man guarding her there. Bronn assured her: “Sandor’s the best guy for the job,” he’d said.

Margaery was a bit taken aback by the heavy scarring and the anger on the man’s face, the first time she met him and Miss Stark. He looked pretty intimidating and didn’t seem too happy to meet her and Bronn, as he refused to take a seat when they were there. He insisted in standing, instead.

But Margaery is a good judge of character; in her line of work she needs to be. The way Sansa searched for the man’s eyes a couple of times and the glances they shared between them, told her enough. Sansa felt safe around him, that much was obvious.

A beeping sound coming from her phone interrupts Margaery’s reminiscing. That’s probably Bronn, he said he’d call later tonight. Running to where she left her purse, Margaery pulls the phone out of her grey Balenciaga bag. She doesn’t care much for expensive brands or luxury items, but she allowed herself this one treat after she’d been with the agency for a year.

Little butterflies flutter around in her stomach at the thought of hearing Bronn’s voice again.

They’ve not shared the bed yet; he’s been a perfect gentleman around her. Much to his credit. But truth be told, Margaery wants nothing more than for him to rip her clothes right off her. _I’m not made of stone._

Working on the case has prevented them from being able to spend much time alone. There’s a lot of work to be done, and now that they’re making such progress, it’s a little easier to keep her mind off of all the things she’d like to do to the man. Or have him do to her...

Margaery feels slightly disappointed to see it’s not Bronn that’s calling her. She has no idea who it could be, since the caller has blocked their id.

“Hello,” Margaery says, not willing to reveal her name just yet.

It’s quiet on the other end of the line.

Feeling impatient, Margaery repeats: “Hello? Who’s there?”

“Hello, miss Tyrell. I believe I have valuable information for you,” says the voice. It’s clear the voice belongs to a mature male, even though it’s sounds somewhat distorted.

Margaery’s hart starts racing a little. Not a lot of people know her number.

“Information on what?” she tries.

It’s silent again on the other end of the line. Not wanting to scare off the person on the other end, risking them hanging up on her, Margaery bites her lip. _Just wait, Marge_. Patience isn’t her strong suit.

“I have some information you’ll need if you’re going to keep Sansa Stark safe,” he says.

Margaery swallows, feeling adrenaline surging through her immediately. No one knows of her connection to Sansa. This is alarming.

“Who… who is this?” she breathes.

“My identity is not important right now. Sansa’s safety is. Cersei Lannister has contacted Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. He’ll be coming.”

Margaery feels like a string puppet, played by fate, whose big hands are tugging at all the wrong strings, controlling her movements against her will.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do you know all this?”

Margaery tries to keep her voice calm and not too eager, but she’s not sure she’s succeeding.

“I’m an insider, miss Tyrell. I inform you because miss Stark… she’s kind. You better hurry. He won’t be long. Move her. We’ll talk more later.” At those words, the mystery caller breaks the connection.

Margaery can barely keep herself from dropping the phone, right where she stands. But only _just._

_Shit, shit, shit._

Running to where she kicked out her shoes, Margaery dials Bronn’s number.

He’s fast to pick up.

“Marge,” he says, with a hint of amusement to his voice.

“I said I’d call you, d-“

“This is not a social call, Bronn,” she interrupts him. “I just received an anonymous phone call from someone claiming to be an insider of the Lannister family.”

“That’s great, isn’t it? If it’s even true,” says Bronn, not aware of the true message Margaery is trying to convey.

“No, Bronn, it’s _not_. He says Cersei Lannister has contacted a Gregor Clegane to find Sansa. I don’t know him, but he mentioned someone called ‘the Mountain’. If it’s who I think it is… Shit, Bronn, we have to get Sansa and Sandor out of there. Now.”

It’s quiet at the other end of the line, but Margaery can hear Bronn breathing. It’s nothing like him to not talk back immediately, and it adds to Margaery’s feeling of discomfort.

“Fuck. Okay. You call Sandor. I’ll drive over there right now, and get them out. Hurry, Marge.”

“On it,” she breathes.

Bronn swears again.

“Marge? When you reach them, don’t tell Sandor a thing. Just say they’ve been compromised. Gregor… He’s Sandor’s brother. He’s the fucking reason his face was burned. I don’t know how Sandor will take the news that his brother’s in the mix now. I'm leaving now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took a bit longer to update this time! I was away on vacation. If you ever visit Oslo, I highly recommend a visit to Vigeland Park! Oh, and bring a well filled wallet. Oslo is a pretty expensive city (eight bucks for a draft beer, okay).  
> As always, I would love to hear from you. Please do leave a comment if you can; it feeds the author! Thank you very much for reading In Dreams; you make it all worthwhile. <3


	22. 22.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens next?

22.

Fidgeting and looking for ways to keep herself occupied, Sansa hopes Sandor will take his time in getting dressed. Because if he was to come out now, she’d have no idea what to say. And since her intention of waiting and taking time worked out so well a couple of minutes ago, Sansa decides a little distance and time to herself might be good.

If only Valor would need another walk, she could take him out and put some space between Sandor and herself. Or rather: take some time to herself to come up with an idea on how to pick up where she left things, at least long enough to come up with a plan. Or a line. Just _something._ She basically said she is interested in him and made sexual advances, even if she didn’t literally say _I think you’re hot and we should make out_. Shaking her head, _because I can’t believe I just did that and now what_ , she looks around the room.

For the first time since she arrived at the cabin with Sandor, Sansa feels trapped in her situation. It’s hard to get away, almost impossible to retreat. She feels safer than she has in quite a long time, but her world has become very small. It’s the walls of the cabin, and a few yards around the little house when she takes Valor out or when she needs to get some fresh air.

 _And it’s not Sandor I want to get away from,_ Sansa thinks. _It’s myself. Because I don’t know where to take it from here, I don’t know if I’m ready to go further, and I want to, but I don’t know how he feels and I sure as hell don’t know if this is the right time._

Valor yawns from his doggy bed and for a second, Sansa envies the dog. It must be so nice not having to deal with feelings of doubt and want and insecurity, all that _fucking people crap._ Sansa smiles at her own thoughts, because it’s exactly how Sandor would put things.

Growling sounds coming from her stomach remind Sansa that she hasn’t eaten in a while. Maybe it’s time to make something to eat. Sansa has been up for a couple of hours, because sleeping is hard when you’re not tired. There’s not much to do, and after taking Valor out for his walk, her plan was to make eggs. Shrugging to loosen her shoulder muscles a little, Sansa opens the fridge to take out some eggs, bacon and butter, reminding her of the breakfast Sander cooked earlier that week.

The fridge was well stocked when they first arrived. But Sandor is a big eater and it’s been some days now. Bronn said he’d be back soon to bring more supplies, but he’s probably busy working on the case, with little time to shop for Sandor and herself, and she can’t blame him. Maybe there’s a chance to take the car and find a grocery store nearby, so they can stock up for at least another couple of days. It would be great to have a change of scenery, even if it’s just to get groceries.

Naïve, _old_ Sansa would not have thought things through: she’d think it would be a nice surprise to get groceries and refill the fridge, but this Sansa knows better. As she lingers on those thoughts a bit longer, feeling sensible for thinking things through, Sansa realizes that’s what she’ll bring up when Sandor gets back from the bathroom. If there’s an awkward silence, suggesting they go out for groceries would be a perfect diversion.

The kitchen is simple and basic, but it does have an oven, reminding Sansa of how she used to bake lemon cakes with her mom. Maybe, if Sandor is open to the idea of visiting a grocery store, they could bring some extra supplies and Sansa can make lemon cakes for them.

Feeling lighter at heart, Sansa opens one of the kitchen drawers to get out a pen and some paper. She knows the recipe by heart; she can’t count the times she made lemon cakes with her mom. While writing down the ingredients, mouth watering at the prospect of eating _lemon cakes_ again, the hairs on Sansa’s arms stand up and something compels her to seek out Sandor.

 _He’s been in there a pretty long time,_ Sansa thinks, suppressing a feeling of slight alarm in the back of her mind. He’s probably just thinking about what I said, she tells herself. No big deal, he’s fine. Not completely able to let go of her feeling of worry, Sansa finishes her grocery list and puts down the pen, leaving the kitchen.

***

Sandor watches the red headed girl storm out of the hallway, thinking she seemed a little surprised at her own… cheekiness.

So. _That_ happened. But what happened, exactly? _Other, more pleasant ways of keeping warm._ Yeah, Sandor is pretty sure that’s what the little bird said after he contemplated what to say next, and told her that the shower he took was cold. _More pleasant ways._ And the look on her face. He could swear she was biting her lip.

Surely Sansa meant turning on the heater in the bathroom. Or getting the fireplace to work in the living room, as it is their main source of heat in the cabin.

It must’ve been that.

But the look on her face, though. She _blushed._ And though the familiar voice in the back of his head is screaming rather than saying _forget about it, look at her, and look at you, she could never –_ she _did_ blush. And stare. And she’s stared before, intently, her eyes lingering on his chest and shoulders a little too long. He knows he saw that for sure.

Sandor isn’t a people person. He wasn’t a people person before his face was burned, and he sure as hell isn’t a people person now. So he might not be the best at reading and interpreting social interactions. And he doesn’t want to allow himself any hope, even if he’s not exactly sure of what. But a little spark in him has lit, one that _is_ full of hope and promise and dreams. Of something _different._ And it makes him feel light and fucking terrified, all at once. 

He wants to be better, and do better. That’s all because of her. For her. Without being asked, he wants to open up. Let her in. So she can see who he really is, underneath all the intimidating physical aspects of him, the tattoos, the scars, the scowls. For her, he could be a better man. Fuck, for her, he _wants_ to be a better man.  

A better man. The words go back and forth in his mind, silencing the voice that always tells him not to get his hopes up, because _look at you, you’re a worthless fuck, you’ve nothing to offer_.

And that’s when Sandor remembers. The little bird… _she thinks I’m a good man, already_. A _survivor._ She spoke the words when she took care of him, their first night there, in that tiny bathroom, tending to his broken nose, her own handiwork, from just hours before.

The memory of her fingertips softly brushing his cheek, the _bad_ side of him, hits him so vividly, Sandor has to grab on to the doorpost of the bathroom to keep himself steady.

She touched him, and she didn’t recoil. She didn’t even blink. She just looked at him, and at that very moment, a connection between them was born. A bond, an invisible link of two souls, two people getting to know each other, and themselves through it.

Taking a few deep breaths, Sandor searches for a moment’s distraction and concentrates on the sounds of the birds, chirping away outside. But to no avail, because they remind him of the young woman in the living room, so near, the little bird.

Crossing the threshold of the bathroom and ducking his head, silently cursing the height that is him, because he’s bumped his head more often than he bothered to remember to look out.

Clearing the small film of water that formed on the mirror above the sink, he takes a long, hard look at himself. For maybe the first time in six years, the scars are not the first thing he looks at when confronted with his own image, and the realization of this hits him, hard.

_It’s because of her._

Looking away, Sandor unwraps the towel, takes it off his hips and carefully puts it up on the heater, next to hers, and puts on a clean pair of boxers and his faded old jeans, before something beckons him to return to the mirror to have another good, long look at himself.

His nose has healed up faster than he thought it would. The bruising and swelling have gone. It’s still sensitive, but if you didn’t know any better, you’d have no idea of the fact that it was actually broken. And the scars… they remain unchanged, a testament as to how he was breached, and how he is still alive and kicking today. They don’t define who he is.

Sandor feels a lump in his throat at yet another realization.

 _They do not define me. They’re not me. I am more that the scars on my face._  

Closing his eyes, Sandor needs a moment to catch his breath and regain his composure. As he leans on the sink, both hands placed firmly on either side, he lets his head hang a little, swallowing a couple of times.

It’s a strange sensation: a weight falls off his shoulders. At the same time, a heavy feeling of tension forms around his upper back, sending signals to his head, and his temples. They don’t register as pain, but they sting. His _eyes_ sting, and Sandor realizes he’s letting go of something.

That’s when a slender, small, _beautiful_ hand curls around the side of the bathroom door, pushing it open a little further. Without intent, or questions, or remarks, the little bird comes in, as she finds him standing there, bare, and exposed, and it’s not because of his lack of clothes.

She’s quick to close the distance between them. Both of her hands find the sides of his face, as she looks at him, sees him, softly brushing his damp hair back. There’s an understanding in her eyes, and for a fraction of a second, Sandor thinks maybe he’s dreaming again.

But the warmth and the slight pressure of her hands are there, and it’s real, and scary, and absolute bliss. He doesn’t cry, but she must have seen that _something_ has happened, something clicked in his mind, and Sandor just knows that she _gets_ it, because she caresses his face, before softly moving her arms up to his neck, standing on her toes to reach him, as she gently pulls him in for an embrace.

Sandor clutches his hands without realizing, arms tightly held to his sides, before a light caress down his back reminds him of where he is and what is happening, and he releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Lowering his head, Sandor puts his arms around the little bird, _Sansa,_ and it is then, in that very moment, that he truly lets her in.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! It's been a bit longer this time, between updates. I had the second half of the chapter done in no time, and then my muse decided to go into hiding for a little while. But I decided to give it a another try after a couple of weeks and though I don't feel like I'm fully back in the swing of things yet, I felt it was okay enough to post. Thank you for reading, I hope you like this chapter! Feedback and comments are very much appreciated.


	23. 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Get out. You've been compromised.

Bronn considers himself an absolute atheist, but that’s not stopping him from praying to God at this very moment. A god, any god, old and new, all and any will do if they are willing to make an exception just this once, and listen to him.

He painfully remembers the voice of Eddard Stark, the girl’s father, the way he was breathing and almost broke when they spoke on the phone. It wasn’t so much the exact words he used, but the way the voice sounds of a man who thinks he may have lost his child. The words he _does_ remember, have not left his mind since. _She’s missing. Sansa has been working for the Lannisters._

Sansa, the sweet and soft-spoken girl with the red hair, red like her mothers. Sansa, who was always kind, looked for the best in people, sometimes to a fault, no matter who they were and what they had done. Sansa, who was always genuinely happy to see him, when he visited her family as she was growing up. Sansa, who had grown into a beautiful, strong young woman. Even with the bags under her eyes, her hair looking disheveled from what he could only imagine she had lived through. Sansa, who cried when she saw him again.

Bronn much longs for a cigarette, but he needs to focus on driving and he’s not much of a multitasker.

They don’t know who called Margaery to inform them on Cersei Lannister’s next move. But the caller knew enough for them to take him seriously. He knew about Sansa, hiding. Which is alarming. Bronn feels the hairs on his neck standing up, and it’s not from the temperature inside his car. Cold sweat forms a film on his forehead, trickles down his back and his hands are damp with sweat.

The static sounds coming from his radio because he never bothered to get the damn thing to work properly usually annoy Bronn to no end, but as he coughs past a lump that’s formed in his throat, telling himself now is _not_ the time to lose it, he knows he’s close. But he can’t, he made a promise. Willing himself to keep his ducks in a row, Bronn squints his eyes, cursing.

Maybe Margaery can get to them. She’s on the phone right now, trying to reach Sandor and the girl. But Bronn knows Sandor. He doesn’t care much for gadgets and techy stuff and he prefers to be left alone, most of the time. Bronn’s had trouble getting through to him before, even during working hours. Fuck. Bronn hopes Margaery will remember not to tell Sandor about his brother, should she be able to reach him. She won’t. Marge is a pro. She won’t.

He promised Sansa. He promised her family. _We’ll get you home. Hold on, okay? It won’t be much longer. You’re safe now._

A gush of cold, dark wind tugs at Bronn’s SUV. Clutching the wheel to keep his vehicle on the road, cursing the damn car for not picking up more speed, Bronn pushes the gas as far as it will go. His mind continues to race, much like this damn car. The road stretches out before him. Seven more miles to go.  

 _Please,_ Bronn thinks to himself. _Please let me get to her in time._

***

Sansa doesn’t know how long they’ve been standing there, simply holding on to each other, and she finds she doesn’t much care. She feels Sandor’s arms around her, holding on tight, like he’s never going to let go of her now that she’s here, _here_ , and in that very moment, she hopes he never will.

His chin rests on the crown of her head, and she can feel his adam’s apple move whenever he swallows. It makes her wonder if he’s nervous, but whatever it is, it’s okay. Because they’re _here._ Her heart started beating faster when he gave in to her embrace, minutes ago, when he let go of his breath, releasing something, just before he hugged her back.

Her cheek feels warm to his bare chest, as it rises and falls as he breathes, muscles contracting and letting go again, the sounds becoming softer and steadier with each new breath he takes. Her arms fit around him perfectly, encircling him, her hands locked together, eyes closed.

As he’s stroking her lower back, very slowly, almost lazily, Sansa suppresses a shiver, caused by the slight pressure she feels of his hand there, on her, through her clothes. His right hand rests on the nape of her neck, playing with her hair. And not for the first time since they met, Sansa wonders what it would be like to kiss him.

Warmth spreads to her cheeks at the thought, and Sansa is happy he can’t see her face in this very moment. Because it’s all about this moment, and she wants to do whatever she can to make it last, not feeling ready to let go just yet.

Sansa doesn’t want to move, and she’s thinking of ways to stall the moment, even though Sandor is showing no signs of wanting to let go. He’s standing perfectly still; only his hands are moving, ever so slightly.

That’s when Sansa’s mind wanders off, even if only a little, and she remembers when Sandor started calling her ‘Little Bird’. Not that she minds, but curiosity is her one true fault, and she needs to know. Before she can help herself, Sansa blurts out: “Why Little Bird?”

The question has the opposite effect rather than stalling, because Sandor’s hand stills on her back and he stops playing with the little curls in her neck that always escape from her hair tie. He takes a deep breath, before pulling his shoulders back slightly, taking another breath. _Damn it, Sansa! Learn to keep your mouth shut!_

Craning her neck again, but refusing to let go of him just yet, her eyes find his, and she feels warmed by the kindness she sees in them, even in this darkness. He’s smirking. It’s small, and barely there, but she has gotten to know that face, and she knows. She _sees_ it.

He tilts his head to the right a little, arching an eyebrow just before he speaks, his left hand still resting on her lower back, right around the waist band of her jeans, and says: “Because next to me, you’re _little_. And you… _Chirp.”_

She can’t help but laugh at that explanation, and they laugh together, feeling the loss of warmth from the embrace, but thankful for a release from the tension and the emotion that is there.

As Valor sticks his head through the half open bathroom door, Sansa realizes just how dark it has gotten. The only light is coming through the opening of the door. That’s when Sansa remembers; Sandor is barely dressed. Curiosity finds its way back to her mind, and her eyes dart over his torso in an attempt to make out some of the tattoos on his body. Tattoos she’d completely forgotten about, when she came in to find Sandor when she did.

Outside, the breeze is picking up. Tree branches softly pat the roof of her wooden new home, even if it’s just temporary, and it’s perfectly silent, reminding Sansa of the calm before a storm.

***

When she first learned of the papers and the girl, then only known to her as a Sansa Stark, all Margaery could think about were getting those documents in her hands. Being young and ambitious, Margaery knew that they might help her in her case against the Lannisters, the largest criminal family of the state.

Shortly after, she met with Sansa in person. The girl seemed very relieved to hand over all the records she’d hung on to since her disappearance from the public eye. Margaery could barely contain herself, after she’d said goodbye to Sansa Stark, wanting to know just what information the documents revealed.

Upon further review, Margaery was only beginning to understand just how incriminating the records exactly were. Hell, this information wasn’t a nice addition to her case. It was the one bit that was going to tip the scales. The very key to bringing the Lannisters to justice. _Finally_. 

As she sat there in her apartment just a couple of days before, reading through the documents again, something happened to Marge. It became personal.

Making a name for herself was still important. She might not be presented with an opportunity like this again for a very, very long time. But she met Sansa, and immediately knew it was about more than putting a stop to the Lannisters. It was about keeping a young, very scared woman safe.

 _Safe_. She’s pacing the living room, walking back and forth, looking at nothing in particular, trying to get a hold of Sansa and Mr. Clegane. But after 10 attempts, leaving voicemail messages, texting, calling again, panic is beginning to strike. She can’t get through. Mr. Clegane is not picking up, even though it’s his duty to… To what? Be available for chats? _Shit, why is he not picking up?_

Margaery calls again. The phone rings for a couple of times, before switching to voicemail.

“You’ve reached the number of Sandor Clegane. Leave a message.”

It’s short and functional, to the point.

 “Damn it, _damn it_ , why won’t you pick up!”

 “Mr. Clegane, this is Margaery Tyrell. You’ve been compromised.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowsa. I've never been this long between updates! I do hope people are still wanting to read :O  
> But it's here. I'm not there yet, but this is a step in the right direction, I hope. Please do let me know how you like this chapter.  
> A special Thank You to Cecilia for her advice. ^^


	24. 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoying life and eachother from the safety of their bubble, lots is going on around Sansa and Sandor. Will they be safe? This is a bit of a dark chapter :O

The clock strikes, and she knows it is almost time.

Taking one last sip before leaving her crystal wine glass on the little table next to her red and golden chaise longue, Cersei kicks out her stiletto heels and proceeds to ascend the broad staircase, taking her upstairs to her favorite rooms in the family mansion.

Cersei walks slowly, calculated, an almost shrewd quality to the sway of her narrow hips, her long and slender legs, as she places one foot after the other. Her bare feet touch every step of the staircase, and Cersei knows by heart each step that will take her weight without complaint, and which step will creak under the pressure of her, as she makes her way to her dressing rooms on the first floor.

It’s truly a beautiful home. Though she’s grown up here, this knowledge is not lost on Cersei. As a little girl, she often fantasized about what it would be like to fill the halls and rooms with girly laughter; with a family of her own one day. She’d have three little girls, and they’d be little, golden haired princesses, all of them, and they would love her.

She indeed had three children, but as life goes, Cersei grew up, and had to learn to deal with the cards she’d been given. It was nothing like what she fantasized about as a little girl. Her mother passed away, she was raised mainly by nannies and they never stuck around for very long. Her father wasn’t around often, and Cersei remembers with great detail how she looked up to him, whenever daddy was away on one of his many business trips, making her believe must be a very important man, and she felt so _proud_ …

The mansion is large, and spacious enough to comfortably fit Cersei, her two idiot brothers, her father, their numerous staff and her eldest son, with her only daughter Myrcella and her youngest son Tommen living in the United Kingdom.

But Cersei longs for more space to herself, not having to be confronted with her worthless, slacking brothers, or the ever scrutinizing gaze of Tywin Lannister, her father. All she ever wanted, and still seeks of him, all she _needs_ so _desperately,_ is just a _hint_ of approval. A tiny pat on the shoulder, a smile, a kind gesture, anything, after so many jobs well done. A fucking _thank you_ , after all she’s sacrificed.

Her youngest two children moved away, leaving the country to attend a prestigious school in London, England. It makes her a proud mother, knowing Myrcella and Tommen chose to fend for themselves, seeing more of the world and seeking the best possible education instead of relying on the family fortune to get by.

But Cersei knows, as a mother, she _knows_ , that her daughter and youngest son left for other reasons, too. Tommen always did follow in the footsteps of Myrcella, whom was his beacon. When Myrcella informed Cersei on her plans to study abroad, leaving behind a life of luxury, comfort, of having everything they could possibly want, Tommen was quick to echo his sister’s voice; he wanted to leave too. And Cersei _knew_. They didn’t just leave the family, they did it to get away from the Lannister name. From _her_.

Quickly putting the feelings of abandonment aside, because _what good are they_ , _it is done, and Joffrey is still here,_ Cersei revels in knowing that tonight, finally, the Stark girl will get what is coming to her. Images of the pretty redhead crying, begging for mercy, for her life, or death, is all it takes to lift her spirits, replenish her good will, and Cersei smiles.

***

Snow is falling, but Sandor and Sansa are too busy rummaging through the kitchen cabinets to notice anything that’s happening outside of their little bubble. It’s November, and the cold has set in sooner this year than it did the last.

They’ve run out of most of their supplies, but there’s enough left to make at least one more good meal and something for breakfast in the morning.

Sandor planned on getting in touch with Bronn, to inform him they’d leave the cottage for a short time to get some much needed groceries, but after the bathroom encounter not long ago, he finds he can’t quite tear himself away from Sansa. He’s not unlike Valor in that respect, and it’s amusing to him.

She occupies his thoughts now more than before, and she’s becoming more than just work. He vowed in silence to keep her safe, give his life to save hers if need be, and he feels a pang in his stomach at the thought that one day, not long from now, his assignment will be over. He can’t think about life after her, after _them_ , and to his better judgment, he allows himself to not go there, and not think about that just yet, simply because he _can’t._

That’s when Sandor remembers; there is still some good whisky left. She didn’t seem to mind the taste of the beverage before, so he’ll share it with her now, if she wants to. Walking back to the bathroom where he stored it last, he takes the bottle, grabs his phone from the charger and returns to the kitchen to search for two glasses in one of the cabinets, placing them on what could be used as a dinner table.

Sansa is clearly amused, as she looks over her shoulder to watch what he is doing, putting plates and utensils on the table, next to the two glasses and the bottle of whisky.

The girl is preparing dinner, jesting that if they are to last until tomorrow with what little food they have left, now is not the time for him to experiment with food.

He’s caught her attention, pacing about the house, because her eyes follow him as he walks back to the kitchen, and she asks: “Are you setting the table now?”

Grabbing one of the floral pattern dish cloths from the kitchen and draping it over his under arm to mimic a waiter, Sandor does his best to sound like a _very_ posh Englishman, as he answers.

“Why yes, my lady. We shall dine in style on this fine evening. May I recommend this beautiful bottle of whisky? It’s very old.”

He apparently didn’t do a very good job, because as soon as he starts talking, Sansa drops what she’s doing, giggling, a look of amusement on that beautiful face of hers.  

“A… are you trying to sound like… like a _servant,_ Sandor Clegane?!”

He arches a dramatic eyebrow at that, huffing: “What do you mean, my lady, I am to be your waiter this fine evening!”, feigning feeling extremely insulted.

That’s all it takes for the girl to haunch over, bursting in laughter. Fanning herself, she struggles to get the words out, but he can hear her just fine.

 “You… you look like a, a _biker gang servant!”_ she chuckles, pointing at him with a spatula.

“Ha! Are you saying I make for a poor waiter? Is _that_ it, Little Bird?”

Her laughter reduces to girlish, _very_ adorable sounds of giggles, and he can’t help himself.

In his best posh English, which sounds like absolute shit, Sandor continues: “I’ll have you know I went to the best Whisky school known to man!”, slowly taking a couple of steps to where she is standing.

She carefully puts down the spatula with her right hand, eyeing him intently, like she knows what’s going to happen next. Just as he takes a leap forward, she shrieks in laughter, getting away from his waiter clutches just in time.

But Sandor is fast, and after she successfully dodged him a few times, his arms find her waist, viciously tickling her.

“Stoooop!,” Sansa cries, laughing. “Stop!”

“Apologize,” he rasps, fake angry.

“Say I’m the best whisky waiter in the world first, and _maybe_ then I’ll let you go.”

She continues to laugh and wiggle in his arms, before he scoops her up, her knees tucked under his forearm, her shoulders and neck resting on his other.

Her giggles become softer, as she brings up her left hand to his face in a sweet gesture. He doesn’t recoil.

Sansa brings the spoon she’s still holding to her mouth, using it as a microphone, solemnly declaring: “Sandor Clegane is the worst waiter ever, whisky or otherwise. And I wouldn’t have him any other way.”

Smirking, he carefully puts her down again.

“Was that so hard?”

The smell of burning meat seems to remind Sansa of the fact that she was cooking. Bringing her hand down from his cheek, she lets it rest on his chest for a couple of seconds.

“Nah, I guess not. But if you want to dine in style, my good ser, I best see to that steak now”, she says, in a perfect British English accent.

Chuckling at her, Sandor doesn’t notice the screen of his phone lighting up.

***

In the darkness, he squints his eyes in an attempt to get a better vision of the small wooden cottage some 50 yards ahead. Thick, dense woods surround the cottage, and wet snow began falling a couple of hours earlier, covering the scene before him in an eerie kind of white. From where he stands, he can see a big black car parked around the back. Little light comes from the back of the building.

The cottage looks like a garden shed, or a place to keep dogs, and it’s reminding him of the little shed his father kept right next to the house he grew up in, with his younger brother and sister. That shed, it’s where he had his first taste. It is where he was truly born.

He knows no happiness, no feelings of warmth enter his heart at the memory of growing up, of family. Sometimes he tries very hard to remember, to think back to a time before the headaches an blackouts came. He tries, but he’s pretty sure they were always there, always a part of him.

The only memories he has of feeling more than the sensation of his brain pounding and hammering and _clawing_ away at the inside of his skull, are the few instances he allowed himself to release the beasts within fully, without restraint, and it makes him hungry for more. He moves his massive neck, and a loud ‘pop’ brings him back to the here and now. The beasts will play and feast tonight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the muse is back. Thanks very much for all the kind words after I posted the previous chapter! I hope you liked this one as well. <3


	25. 25.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oooooh shit.

Keeping an eye on the meat as it’s cooking, Sansa looks up at Sandor and without him noticing, her eyes linger on him for a while. There has been an amazing transformation. They have not known each other for very long, but spending a lot of time together, cooped up in that little wooden cottage that has started to feel like a home now, she saw the changes in him, small as they were. _They’re not changes,_ Sansa corrects herself. _He’s becoming himself._

Unchanged remains the scarring on his face, but the scars no longer cast a shadow over how he acts, no longer decide what she gets to see of him. As the little layers dissolve, revealing who is really underneath, getting to know him better with every passing second they spend in each other’s company, silence sits with them comfortably and no words are needed. There is comfort, understanding. And a constant, thick static, lulling in the air, and Sansa imagines it will not be long for the static and the atmosphere to combust, forever changing who they are. The thought of wanting to kiss him enters her mind again, and she’s daydreaming.

A loud ‘pang’ sounds, tearing through the comfortable silence that that sat between them, and Sansa drops the pan she just took off the gas. Bits and pieces of glass, reminding her of tiny crystals, fly around and all of a sudden it’s like they’re in a movie, but someone has forgotten to inform her on the plot twist that was planned at the last minute, and all she can do from the shock of the very sudden sound, ears ringing from the shots she heard, is give in to an instinct that tells her to drop everything she is doing to find some kind of safety on the floor. Sansa hold her breath, as her eyes seek out Sandor. _Sandor. He’ll know what to do._

***

The sounds from the glass window of the kitchen window shattering, immediately sets Sandors autopilot to work. Reaching for his revolver, he realizes he’s not carrying arms, as the gun rests on the little table next to the couch that he’s been calling his bed for the last couple of nights. _Shit._ He’ll find a way to get to it, soon. His eyes dart over to the little bird. She’s ghostly white, and his heart is hammering, and echoing the words he spoke. _I’ll keep you safe._

“Sansa, look at me. We’re going to be alright. Stay down and get close to me”, he says, dead calm, but his heart keeps racing, the steel grey and blue of his eyes scanning the surroundings intently, to see if he can make out exactly where the shots were fired from. Knowing the position of the shooter will give him an advantage, and he’s going to need one if they are going to make it out of this alive. “Fuck, how the hell do they know we’re here?” he curses, and the girl winces. _Volume, Clegane,_ he reprimands himself. Getting the both of them out of this situation is his first priority, they’ll deal with the rest later.

As his eyes find her again, Sandor notices that both steaks have fallen, their juices staining the floor and it makes him think of blood, that could be _her_ blood on the floor there, and his heart skips a couple of beats and he knows it’s from more than the rush of adrenaline that runs through him, it’s because of her, she can’t get hurt, she _can’t,_ and it’s hard to ignore the feeling of panic that is fighting relentlessly to take hold of his system, with icy fingers closing around his neck, obstructing his breath and mind with it, and it’s the sound of her breathing “Sandor, I’m okay” that brings him back to the here and now and he can think again. The girl is right next to him, trembling in fear.

“Sansa. I will get us out of this. I am going to need you to trust me. Do as I say. Okay? I will get us out of here. You understand? You have my word.”

Through her tears, she looks up at him and she swallows visibly, before she nods. “Yes. I trust you.”

***

The kickback his gun gives him as he fires the first bullet, immediately silences the stream of thoughts and sounds and words in his mind, and for a moment Gregor revels in the nothingness that is taking over.

When Cersei asked him to get to the redhead, Gregor was uncertain at first. The headaches were constantly there now, debilitating him. There was no way to numb the pain he was in.

After he found out that Sandor, his little brother, was with the young woman he would need to retrieve if he was going to agree to Cersei’s terms, it seemed almost too good to be true. It meant he would get to finish what he set out to do years ago.

A mirthless smile forms on his face as he looks around, taking in the sight of the small wooden cabin one last time. The mist does little to take the cabin from his view, and Gregor takes a deep breath in, closing his eyes to fully appreciate the cold air piercing his enormous lungs.

It seems appropriate that his little brother would hide in a dump like this. _Perfect place to keep a dog._

The headache keeps pounding at his senses, making Gregor clench his fists, releasing his fingers and clenching them again, but he takes comfort in knowing that soon, he will be able to silence the pain to a more comfortable level. By inflicting pain on others, his own pain diminishes, even if for just a few minutes. And he is in no hurry.

Inspecting his gun again, Gregor finds he likes the cat and mouse game, the _chase_ , and he imagines that the girl inside must be terrified, and it makes his blood boil in wonderful agony, making him decide to drag it out a little further. Taking ten massive steps to his right, he hides himself from sight behind one of the thick trees that surround the little house, the dog house. 

He is wearing cargo pants and a tank top, and the cold wind of winter does not affect him in any way. Because his blood is streaming, warming him from within, and Gregor can hear his blood rushing from his heart to his torso, his powerful limbs and he takes a few more steps in the direction of the cabin, wishing this foreplay could last forever.

But there is work to be done, and his rewards are waiting on the other side of the heavy wooden door. Gregor fires a new round of shots as he closes in on the worthless shelter his baby brother took the girl to. Glass continues to break and Gregor reloads his weapon, readying himself for another round.

***

Much as his heart, Sandor finds that his mind keeps racing as he tries to figure out the best way to get himself and Sansa to safety. From the rounds fired, Sandor can tell there is probably only one shooter, but he is moving in on them, and this puts him off.

As the rain of bullets ceases for another minute, Sandor quickly makes his way over to where his gun lies, crawling through pieces of broken glass. He registers no pain. Reaching for his gun, a new salvo of gunfire breaks loose, and a high pitched scream escapes from Sansa’s lips. _Fucking hell_.  

“Sansa. I’m gonna need you to go to the bedroom. Beneath the bed is a spare gun and a box of ammo. Find them and slide them over to me. No matter what happens, you STAY there. Go!”

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Sandor sees her taking a deep breath, trying desperately to steady herself. She opens her mouth, but she follows his instructions. Casting one look at the window pane with pieces of glass sticking out, she nods. “Okay. Please be careful,” she cries. “I need you to be careful.”

Bringing his hand to her cheek, Sandor does his best to reassure her. “I will. Now go.”

She turns her head, kissing the palm of his hand, and before Sandor knows it, the girl is out of his sight. He can hear the sound of metal and something else scrape the floor behind him, right before a single blow to the only door in the cabin, forces it to break at the hinges, making Sandor jerk his head to look up at the unwelcome visiter.

Empty, ice cold eyes find his own.

 

_“Hello, little brother.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while! I'm trying to get back to the swing of things. I promise I won't update again too long from now and I apologize for this mean, mean cliffhanger. 
> 
> I hope some of you are still interested in reading this fic!! Please comment and let me know your thoughs if you can spare a minute.


	26. 26.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh gods. I was without a muse for almost 6 months. Earlier this week she came back to me, and now I find myself on a muse overdose of sorts! But I'm not complaining. I hope there are still people out there who like reading this here story. I dedicate this chapter (apologies for another cliff hanger in advance) to all of you who have been so patient with me. I hope and feel this chapter is going to be the start of more chapters to come!

26.

After sliding over the gun and ammo to Sandor, Sansa quickly hides behind the bed, leaving the door open for only a couple of inches, allowing but a tiny strip of light to come through.  

The floor feels rough and cold to her hands, but she doesn’t care about that. She’ll worry about splinters from the unpolished floorboards later. Right now, all that matters is getting through this. Her eyes scan the room, hoping to find a weapon of sorts. Anything that might help her in keeping safe, but the only weapon there was, is now probably lying in the hands of Sandor.   

Questions and fear keep fighting over who gets to have the upper hand in her mind, as Sansa spots Valor, who is standing between her, the bed and the door. Valor keeps his head low as his eyes are focused on the tiny opening from the door. The sounds of glass falling to the floor and wooden panels breaking, don’t seem to faze him whatsoever. He’s tense, and Sansa has learned to recognize that rather than being tense, it means he’s focused; doing his job. He’s _working._ Valor continues to focus on the door, showing his teeth, making no sound. He’s readying himself for a confrontation, and the realization of this brings tears to Sansa’s eyes.

Valor can’t get hurt. Not on her account. It takes her mind back to mere days ago. _I’ve had to kill a man._   _Sandor._  He’s in there. He told her to go hide in the bedroom and not come out, no matter what. Sansa struggles to keep her head on straight, feeling that her heart is about to pound right out of her chest, and she imagines what that would like; her heart digging its way through her ribcage, dropping to the floor before her, staining it red with her blood. The absolute absurdity of the image forming in her mind makes her swallow. As she counts to three, Sansa shakes her head violently, shaking the image with it. 

_his is no time to lose it, Sansa. Come on. Think. What would Sandor do?_  

He’s out there, in the line of fire. Trying to keep all of them safe. She can’t fall apart, not now. That’s when Sansa remembers again. _He has a gun_.  Another round of gunfire rattles her to the core, as more glass shatters. Pressing her back to the wall, Sansa’s mind forms a new visual, one that features Sandor, lying on the floor, in a pool of his own blood. Gasping for air. _NO._   

S _urely he’s been in this kind of situation before? I best do as he says._  From where she’s sitting, Sansa covers her ears with her hands in a feeble attempt to keep out the worst of the deafening noise, trying to see Sandor. He’s on the floor, leaning on one knee, aiming his gun at an invisible enemy.  

Making some room between her back and the wall it was pressed against, Sansa crawls a little closer to the door to see what is happening. She catches a glimpse of the side of his face. No expression there, and somehow it reminds her of Valor. As Sansa scoots a little closer to where Sandor is, the sound of a door breaking instinctively drives her back to where she was sitting.  Sansa can barely make out who it is that just kicked down the cabin door. For a split second it takes her back to what feels like years ago, when a tall, dark stranger kicked down another door – the one of her own apartment. She remembers how his much space his frame took up as he stood there in her doorway, as hardly any rays of light, scattered from the weak, flickering fluorescent beam, were able to squeeze past his bulking figure, when he entered her hallway and her life.  

A second blow causes the wooden door of the cabin to break at the hinges and within a second, it’s down, and the cold wind finds its way inside, forever staining what was a safe bubble, where it was the three of them, and Sansa was happy.

Sandor is on still on one knee, trying to keep his hands still, aiming at the door now that it’s down. Seeing who enters appears to be a blow to the face, because she sees Sandor losing his balance, and he scrambles; gun still pointed at the man who broke down the door. Holding himself up with his left hand, he’s quick to regain some of his balance.

A chill sets itself in her core, gripping and clawing, and Sansa knows it will never let go at the words she hears next.

_“Hello, little brother.”_

***

Tugging at the steering wheel, feeling imminently thankful she chose to get a fast car after her first major pay raise two years ago, Margaery feels the vehicle struggles to find grip on the dirty soil it touches. She’s almost there. Almost.

Taking a turn to the right, Margaery notices something is wrong as she nears the cabin. Shit, shit, shit.

Killing her lights, she stops her car some yards away from where Sandor’s black rental SUV is parked around the back. She’ll have to continue on foot. Taking the semi-automatic pistol from her glovebox, Margaery glances around in a rehearsed manner, trying to get a sense of her surroundings. Her heart is pounding, but she is well trained and an instinct kicks in when she realizes she might be late.

The pistol feels good in her hands. She’s happy she picked it, not long ago; the weapon has little kickback and is easy to reload. It requires meticulous cleaning, but that’s not a problem. Something about taking apart her weapon and cleaning it, bit by bit, makes Margaery feel good.

Scanning her surroundings teaches Margaery that Bronn isn’t here yet. Other than Sandor’s vehicle, no vehicles are around, but Marge learned to trust her gut a long time ago; she knows this doesn’t mean no one else is around.

Sneaking up to the cabin, she notices the door has been kicked down. There is no sign of Sansa or Sandor. As she proceeds to close in on the cabin, she swallows. She can’t be too late. She just can’t.

Checking to see if the weapon is loaded and good to go one final time, Margaery nears the kicked down front door.

***

Sandor’s eyes widen at the sight of _him._

The mocking intonation in Gregor’s otherwise emotionless voice, makes him feel like that little boy again. The one that used to protect his mom to the best of his ability, even if it was never enough. Even if he was never really a match for Gregor. _Hello, little brother._

He has a couple of years on him, but that’s the least of Sandor’s worries right now. Gregor is _relentless._ He will hold back at nothing.

Steadying himself to regain his composure, Sandor struggles to keep the gun pointed at the hulking figure of his brother. Sound is coming from the room behind him, but it doesn’t register with him immediately.

As Sandor tries to get up, Gregor is quick to close the distance, in spite of his size and stature. His hand reaches for Sandor’s throat.

In a deliberate, small move, he squeezes at Sandor’s windpipe, slowly but surely choking out all the air, as he pulls Sandor up. His feet are above the ground, as the sounds from behind Sandor start to increase.

It’s starting to get dark, and Sandor struggles to keep himself from passing out. His eyes seek out Sansa, but she’s still hiding in the bedroom behind him. He tries to call out to her, tell her to show her face, so she may catch the gun he has in his hands, but much like his voice, his body has been halted completely and he can’t seem to call out to her.

Valor enters the living room, evoking a mirthless chuckling sound from Gregor.

“Really, little brother? You thought you’d bring a fucking _dog_ with you?!”

The tension from his throat diminishes for a split second, but before Sandor has a change to bring his right hand up to his brother in an attempt to wound him, still holding the gun, Gregor’s eyes leave Valor and he closes his hand around his neck again, knocking whatever wind he had left in his lungs right out.

“You disappoint me, Sandor”, he says in a flat voice.

“Is the girl back there?”

Before Sandor has a chance to respond to the question of Gregor, Valor charges for Gregor, slightly catching him by surprise as Gregor takes a step back, not letting go of Sandor.

“Fucking mutt!” he yells, holding off Valor by a well-aimed kick to the head. The dog cries out before Gregor’s foot finds him again and the dog lays motionless.

That’s when Sansa sticks her head through the door opening. Right before he passes out, not realizing Margaery is standing right behind him and Gregor in the door opening, all Sandor sees is the pale face of Sansa, whom he’d sworn to protect.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading, it means more to me than you know. A special little thank you to Leigh, who helped me sort the many ideas I was having. Also, she is the reason Valor is in this fic. Please let me know what you think by leaving a comment. <3


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